of 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


BY  GEORGE  HORTOK 


CHICAGO: 

F.  J.  SCHTJLTE  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS, 


298  DEARBORN  STREET. 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  FRANCIS  J.  SCHULTK. 

ALL   KIGHTS   KESEKVEP. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

PRELUDE  :    THE  LOST  SONG  ......................................      9 

Songe  of  itye  Cotolg. 

NO   QUAKTEE  ..................................  .  ..................      13 

WHEN  STAKS  SHINE  .............................................  14 

THE  DEAD  KING  .................................................  14 

NOBLES  OF  HEAET  AND  OF  HEAD  ................................  16 

THE  WHISPERING  COEN  ..........................................  17 

THE  HOD-CAEEIEE  ................................................  18 

MY  GIEL  IN  THE  CALICO  DRESS  ..................................  20 

THE  DINNER-  PAIL  BRIGADE  ......................................  21 

FOUND  IN  THE  LAKE  .............................................  23 

ANOTHER  CHRISTMAS  .............................................  26 

To  AN  ENGLISH  SPARROW  ........................................  29 

SONG  OF  THE  HUSKER  ............................................  30 

SMITHY  SONG  ....................................................  31 

LOVE  AND  LOVE  .................................................  32 

YESTERDAY,  TO-DAY,  TO-MORROW  .................................  33 

To  THE  LAKE  BREEZE.  .  .  .........................................  34 

'  '  DESERVING  POOR  "  ..............................................  35 

A  CORNER  IN  WHEAT  .  .'.  .......  ..................................  36 

BEHIND  THE  SCENES  .............................................  37 

THE  WORLD  IN  2000  .............................................  38 

CHRISTIAN  AND  PAGAN  ..........................................  40 

FOR  WANT  OF  BREATH  ..........................................  40 

DISCONTENT  .....................................................  41 

THE  OUTS  AND  INS  ?  .............................................  44 

CONSOLATION  .....................................................  45 

THE  RAG  CARPET  ................................................  47 

BABYLON  is  FALLEN  .............................................  52 


Songs  of  ttye 

LOVE  ............................................................  57 

COURT  YOUE  WIFE  ..............................................  61 

FIRST  MOTHERHOOD  ..............................................  62 

(iii) 


iv  Contents. 


PAGE. 

THE  OLD  LOVE 63 

TRANSFORMATION 65 

BLACK-EYED  ALICE 66 

EYES  OF  TRUE  LOVE 67 

THE  OLD  FIREPLACE 68 

THE  SWEET  GIRL  GRADUATE 69 

LIKE  A  ROSE 71 

A  CHRISTMAS  EVE  SERMON 73 

GRANDMOTHER 74 

FIRST  SWEETHEARTS ' 78 

AFTERMATH 79 

THE  LAST  STRAW 81 

AUTUMN  LEAVES 83 

THE  NEGLECTED  GRAVE 84 

A  TRUE  STORY 85 

BEDTIME 86 

WHAT  WILL  HE  GROW  ? 88 

YELLOW  FEVER  HEROES 89 

To  A  PLAIN  WOMAN 90 

OLD  MOTHER  GOOSE 92 

AN  IDYL  OF  CALIFORNIA 93 

A  YOUNG  NUN 95 

GROWING  RECONCILED 97 

CHANSONETTE 98 

THE  WIDOWER 99 

LOVE'S  OPPORTUNITY 99 

OLD  MAN  THURMAN 100 

A  WORD  OF  ADVICE 102 

DANDELIONS 103 

THE  LAST  SWEETHEART 105 

LITTLE  SUSIE  LILLY 106 

OLD  THINGS  ARE  BEST 107 

A  LETTER  FROM  IRELAND 109 

Songs  of  tlje  Sonl. 

THE  AGNOSTIC'S  CREED 113 

IMMORTALITY 114 

THE  THREE  STILL  YOICES 115 

OUR  Two  LIVES 118 

ON  FINDING  A  BEAUTIFUL  MOTH 120 

A  MYSTERY 121 

HIGHER  . .  .  122 


Contents. 


PAGE. 

BROTHERS  ........................................................  123 

ON  A  CAT  MUMMY.  ..............................................  124 

OH,  MOTHEKLESS  CHILD  !   .........................................   126 

LAURA  BRIDGMAN  ................................................  127 

SIEGING  ALL  THE  WAY  ..........................................  128 

11  THE  INVISIBLE  "  ................................................  129 

UNMASKED  .......................................................  130 

TKIXITY  CHUKCH-YAKD  ..........................................  131 

ittoobs. 

LONGING  FOR  RAIN  ..............................................  135 

A  REMINISCENCE  .................................................  135 

RAIN  AT  LAST  ...................................................  136 

RAIN  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS  ........................................  137 

RAIN  IN  THE  HEART  .............................................  138 

THE  TALKATIVE  WIFE  ...........................................  140 

ALONE  TOGETHER  ................................................  142 

Two  MOODS  ......................................................  143 

THE  UNEXPECTED  ................................................  146 


fugitive 

WALT  WHITMAN  .................................................  149 

PAN  .............................................................  150 

Music  ............................................................  152 

ROBERT  HERRICK  ................................................  152 

THE  ORGAN-GRINDER  .......  '  .....................................  153 

To  WALT  WHITMAN  .............................................  154 

DEATH  OF  THE  STAG  .............................................  155 

THREE  POETS  ....................................................  159 

AN  ESSAY  ON  FAME  .............................  ................  161 

THE  RISHI  ......................  .  ................................  162 

SUNRISE  ON  LAKE  MICHIGAN  .....................................  163 

AN  IMPROVISATION  ..............................................  165 

ASHES  ...........................................................  165 

WOUNDED  KNEE  ..................................  .  ...............  166 

THE  GROGGERY  CASH  BELL  .......................................  169 

Sennets  cmfr  BflUabsa. 

ON  CREMATION  ...................................................  173 

HELEN  OF  TROY  .................................................  173 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  .  .  .  174 


vi  Contents. 


PAGE. 

BALLADE  OK  AX  UNUSUAL  GRIEF 174 

BALLADE  OF  BURSTED  BELIEFS i 175 

BALLADE  OF  THE  LETTER  R 177 

BALLADE  OF  DESPAIR 178 

A  NOBODY,  DON'T  T'  KNOW 179 

ARE  THEY  THANKFUL  ? 180 

DANTE'S  STORY  OF  FRANCESCA , .  181 


n  Cigijter  t)ein. 


YE  BONANZA  ....................................................  185 

ALEXANDER'S  POET  ..............................................  188 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  MOON  .........................................  192 

SOME  DAY  —  NOT  Now  ...........................................  191 

SALLY  ...........................................................  193 

DR.  WISE'S  GREAT  THEORY  ......................................  194 

ENJ'YIN'  POOR  HEALTH  ..........................................  198 

AN  OBSTINATE  OLD  MAN  .........................................  199 

THE  ROMAN  NOSE  ................................................  201 

OUT  IN  TOKIO  ....................................................  202 

A  SONG  OF  A  SHIRT  ..............................................  204 

A  CONFESSION  OF  LOVE  ..........................................  206 

HIGH  TEA  AT  MRS.  RHYNDE'S  ..................  .  .................  207 


THE  AGNOSTIC  .......................  ............................  215 

THE  MATERIALIST  ................................................  215 

THE  VERY  POOR  MAN  ............................................  216 

THE  PURSE-PROUD  MAN  .........................................  217 

THE  MODERATE  MAN  .............................................  217 

THE  CHRISTIAN  ..................................................  218 

translations. 

HORACE  TO  DELLIUS  .............................................  221 

TOUT  LA  LYRE  ...................................................  222 

To  BE  A  POET  .................................................  .  .  223 

HORACE  TO  CHLOE  ...............................................  224 

To  LOVE  INDEED  ................................................  224 

CUPED  SLEEPING  ..................................................  225 

THE  BROKEN  YASE  ...............................................  226 

PREMIER  SOURIRE  DU  PRINTEMPS  ................................  227 

ANGEL  AND  CHILD  ...............................................  228 

HYMN  TO  APHRODITE  ............................................  229 


Contents.  vii 


PAGE 

RESIGNATION 231 

SIR  BUTTERFLY'S  WEDDING 231 

HONOLULU 233 

LAPLANDER'S  SONG 235 

THE  STINGER  STUNG 236 

TfiE  MILKY  WAY 237 

IF  ANIMALS  COULD  SPEAK 238 

A  NIGHT  IN  LESBOS.  . .  240 


PRELUDE. 


Cost  Song. 

9 

T  PLUCKED  a  wild  flower  from  the  river's  brim, 
A    And  drank  awhile  its  faint  but  fragrant  breath, 
Then  cast  it  forth  upon  the  wave  a-swim, 

And  watched  it,  as  I  fancied,  drift  to  death. 
"  'Tis  lost,"  I  said  ;  but  far  adown  the  tide 

A  tempted  maiden  saw  its  dainty  hue ; 
She  snatched  it,  kneeling  at  the  water  side, 
And  vowed:  "I  will  be  pure,  Sweet  Flower,  like  you." 
And  I,  I  never  knew. 

I  plucked  a  song  from  out  my  heart  one  day, 

And  tossed  it  on  the  noisy  stream  of  rhyme. 
Sadly  I  watched  it  slowly  float  away 

'Mongst  thistles,  weeds  and  sprigs  of  fragrant  thyme. 
"  'Tis  lost,"  I  said,  "'tis  lost  for  evermore, 

Although  within  my  heart  of  hearts  it  grew." 
And  yet,  far  down  beside  the  reedy  shore 

It  taught  one  soul  its  lesson  sweet  and  true. 
And  I,  I  never  knew. 


(9) 


of 


SONGS  OF  THE  LOWLY. 


A  SAGE  once  said  to  me  : 
"Of  two  things  warn  I  thee, 
And  one  is  death. 
No  skill  can  stay  his  arm  ; 
'Gainst  him  avails  no  charm, 

Prayers  are  but  wasted  breath. 

'  When  death  is  standing  near, 
All  vain  is  friendship's  tear 

Or  love's  wild  woe. 
Then  turn  thee  to  the  wall, 
Away  from  friends  and  all, 

Only  to  wait  his  blow. 

<  That  other  thing  is  want, 
Potent  the  soul  to  daunt, 

To  curse  and  blight. 
On  him  that  hath  not  gold 
The  very  sun  shines  cold, 

And  maketh  no  day  bright. 

'  Friends  wail  to  see  thee  die  ; 
From  poverty  they  fly, 
Nor  heed  its  call. 
Who  dies  hath  lived  his  day  ; 
The  poor  can  truly  say  : 

'  We  have  not  lived  at  all/  " 

(13) 


14  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 

tDljen  Stur0  Sf)ine. 

LOOK  !    Daylight's  faintest  glimmer 
Pales  out  of  earth  and  sky  ; 
The  serried  cliffs  wax  grimmer, 

Then  into  darkness  fly, 
And  all  the  sea's  white  shimmer 
Has  dimmer  grown  and  dimmer, 
And  darkened  far  and  nigh. 

But  yonder,  yonder,  yonder 
Blooms  forth  each  golden  star ; 

Plucking  the  night  asunder, 
God  lights  them  thick  and  far, 

While  all  the  heavens  wonder, 

And  all  the  beings  under, 
Because  such  glories  are  ! 

Ah  !  when  joy's  sun  is  going 
And  darkness  downward  rolls  ; 

When  sorrow,  blacker  growing, 
The  lives  of  men  controls  — 

Then,  in  God's  heaven  glowing, 

Their  tender  fierceness  showing, 
Bloom  out  his  star-like  souls  ! 


®I)e  JDeair  King. 

king  was  dead.     His  body  lay 
-       In  splendor  stern  and  grim, 
While  round  him  fell  the  dying  day, 
Sifted  through  windows  dim. 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  15 

His  sword  within  his  nerveless  hand 

Was  clasped  as  when  in  life, 
'Mid  battle-clouds,  that  dreadful  brand 

Had  flashed  and  led  the  strife. 

Beside  his  gray  and  stately  head 

His  jeweled  crown  was  set 
In  readiness,  as  though  the  dead 

Had  need  to  wear  it  yet. 

And  flags  from  many  a  battle-plain, 

Standing  about  his  bier, 
Told  of  rebellious  chieftains  slain, 

And  nations  taught  to  fear. 

There,  too,  steel-clad  and  tipped  with  snow, 

Erect  and  proudly  tall, 
Were  ranged  swart  sentinels,  arow 

Like  pillars  of  the  hall. 

And  all  day  long,  with  curious  stare, 

And  timid,  b.ated  breath, 
The  people  gazed  upon  him  there, 

Dead,  yet  defying  death. 

Eight  royal  seemed  his  upturned  face, 

For  on  it  lingered  still 
The  majesty  of  all  his  race, 

And  of  his  own  high  will. 

The  king  was  dead.     Before  God's  throne 

A  soul  stood  in  the  light, — 
Abject,  misshapen,  stripped,  alone, 

And  shriveled  with  affright. 


16  Songs  of  the  Loivly. 

Nobles  of  §eart  anb  of 

ANEW  order  of  honor  is  needed, 
And  'tis  time  that  the  old  passed  away, 
For  it  must  and  it  will  be  conceded 

That  the  gods  we  have  now  are  all  clay. 
Then  hurrah  for  the  man  with  the  hammer  ! 
Let  him  smite,  in  the  dust  let  him  tread ! 
The  builders  and  molders  are  busy — 
Give  us  nobles  of  heart  and  of  head  ! 

"His  majesty" — words  without  meaning, 

For  the  monarch  possesses  it  not ; 
"His  highness" — the  man  has  a  leaning 

To  the  gutter ;  in  fact,  is  a  so.t. 
"Most  noble  " — alas !  he  is  famous 

As  a  soiler  of  virtue  instead. 
0  G-od,  give  us  soon,  give  us  only 

The  nobles  of  heart  and  of  head  ! 

Is  an  ape,  although  gilded  with  riches, 

Worth  more  than  an  image  of  Christ  ? 
Take  the  old  idols  down  from  the  niches  : 

Too  long  has  their  worship  sufficed. 
Let  us  bow  to  the  man  —  he's  our  hero, 

Though  he  toil  like  a  slave  for  his  bread. 
Let  us  honor  the  world's  only  great  ones — 

The  nobles  of  heart  and  of  head. 

Hear  the  prophets  with  awe,  though  with  wonder ; 

Say  not,  "It  is  dark,"  with  a  sneer : 
From  the  blackest  of  skies  bellows  thunder, 

And  the  heavens  then  suddenly  clear. 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  17 

It  is  coining — the  day  that  we  long  for 
(Oh,  speed  it  before  we  are  sped)  — 

When  earth  shall  pay  homage  alone  to 
The  nobles  of  heart  and  of  head  ! 


f&tyt  tlH)i0pering  dorn. 

HAVE  you  e'er  walked  at  early  morn 
Beside  a  field  of  stately  corn, 
Just  while  the  red  sun  crossed  the  rim 
Of  this  round  world,  mist-wet  and  dim  ? 
Often  have  I,  if  but  to  hear 
Mysterious  whisperings  far  and  near. 

'Tis  just  at  nature's  waking-time, 
While  hillsides  yet  are  white  with  rime, 
And  while  the  first  lark,  rising,  flings 
Dew-spray  from  off  his  early  wings  ; 
And  now  and  then  a  faint  sound  tells 
Where  cattle  stir  'and  shake  their  bells. 

"Hush,"  says  the  corn,  "with  dog  and  gun 

I  see  a  hunter  hither  run. 

0  trembling  hare,  far  inward  hie ; 

Lie  close,  0  partridge,  do  not  fly." 

The  hunter  lists.     It  seems  to  say  : 
"No  game  is  lurking  here  to-day." 

Sometimes  the  farmer  comes  to  see, 
And  then  it  says  :  "  Here's  gold  for  thee, 
Which  sun  and  air  and  sky  and  soil 
Have  gathered  to  reward  thy  toil. 


18  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 

Ten  thousand  sentinels  in  line 

Guard  each  his  gift  for  thee  and  thine." 

• 

Or  if  some  Dives  walks  for  health, 
Worn  out  with  care  of  useless  wealth, 
It  whispers  :  "  You  make  gold  of  tears, 
Of  hunger,  curses,  prayers  and  fears; 
But  here  are  alchemists  whose  gold 
Must  feed  the  hungry,  warm  the  cold." 

Sometimes,  with  heavy  heart,  there  goes 
A  love-lorn  swain  along  the  rows  : 
Then  "  List  I"  it  lisps ;  "  at  husking-bee, 
When  rafters  ring  with  rustic  glee 
Of  brown-cheeked  maids  and  merry  men  — 
Ah,  you  shall  kiss  her,  kiss  her  then." 

Thus  oft,  in  low,  mysterious  wise, 
Soft  voices  from  the  tall  corn  rise  — 
Lulled  lispings,  as  though  unknown  tongue 
Whispered  the  long  lush  leaves  among — 
They  tell  me  secrets  sweet  and  true ; 
They'll  whisper,  if  you  wish,  to  you. 


Stye 

ABOVE  him  towers,  symmetric,  lofty,  massive, 
Story  on  story,  the  unfinished  pile. 
Here  on  the  walk  a  moment  stands  he,  passive, 
His  features  stirred  by  neither  frown  nor  smile. 


Songs  of  the  Loivly.  19 

Windows  and  niches,  arches  true  and  solid, 

Huge  blocks  of  granite,  pillars  smooth  and  fair ; 

These  things  he  heeds  not,  for  his  face  is  stolid, 
And  in  his  eyes  no  joy  there  gleams,  no  care. 

Only  a  toiler  he,  a  bended  carrier, 

Who  up  and  down  goes  slowly  all  day  long ; 

"He  loves  his  task/'  say  wealthier  men,  or  warier; 
"His  mind  is  dull,  his  back  is  broad  and  strong." 

Up  now  he  goes,  his  load  upon  his  shoulder, 

So  little,  and  the  structure  is  so  vast ! 
Think  you  he  cares  how  quickly  cities  moulder, 

How  short  a  time  the  grandest  buildings  last  ? 

'Twere  useless  quite  his  senses  to  bewilder 

With  history  and  fate  of  ancient  pile ; 
What  matters  it  how  far  great  Ramses,  Builder, 

Swept  with  his  armies  from  the  fertile  Nile  ? 

Above  the  towns  of  Uruk,  the  Chaldaean, 
Sands  of  the  desert  sift  like  sifting  snow ; 

And  mighty  forests  hum  a  savage  paean 
O'er  Toltec  cities  in  Old  Mexico. 

Deep  let  them  lie  !     Their  glory  be  forgotten  ! 

They  tell  how  men  ^were  driven  in  the  past. 
Their  kings  are  lost,  their  very  stones  are  rotten, 

But  slavery  and  toil  forever  last. 

Down  now  he  comes.     When  these  fair  walls  are  riven, 
And  Ruin's  dust  drifts  over  them  in  scorn, 

In  some  far  realm  will  slaves  be  bought  and  driven, 
Will  Might  still  rule  in  kingdoms  now  unborn  ? 


20  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 

I 

Herodotus  fished  well  in  priestly  gutters, 
Yet  on  no  page  the  pyramids  explains ; 
But  every  royal  mummy,  grinning,  mutters  : 

"See  how  we  lashed  men  in  our  ancient  reigns." 

Poor,  weary  toiler!     Worse  your  fate  and  sadder 
Than  that  of  any  slave  in  ancient  day ; 

'Tis  hunger  drives  you  up  and  down  the  ladder. 
What  tyrant  ever  could  so  well  dismay? 

Think  you  he  knows  that  kings  are  no  diviner 
Than  even  he,  a  dull,  down-trodden  waif  ? 

That  Fortune's  pets  are  made  of  flesh  no  finer? 
But  no,  he  sings  !    Thank  God,  the  state  is  safe. 


©trl  in  tlje  Calico  £)n00. 


MY  lady  is  haughty  and  grand, 
She's  a  vision  of  beauty  and  art  ; 
But  I  fear  that  her  dainty  white  hand 

Is  softer  by  far  than  her  heart. 
Shall  I  come  as  a  suppliant  near  her, 

To  be  crushed  when  my  love  I  confess  ? 
Ah,  no  ;  there's  a  fairer  and  dearer  — 
A  girl  in  a  calico  dresg. 

My  lady  has  money  and  style, 

She  has  dresses  and  gems  by  the  score, 
And  lovers  to  strive  for  her  smile, 

Besides  men  and  maid  servants  galore  ; 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  21 

my  heart  sings  as  loud  as  a  linnet, 
And  all  envy  I  quickly  repress, 
When  I  hold  in  my  arms  just  a  minute 
That  girl  in  the  calico  dress, 

My  lady  is  traveled  and  wise, 

She  reigns  at  reception  and  ball, 
She  kills,  if  need  be,  with  her  eyes, 

But  she  blushes,  I  fear,  not  at  all. 
She's  a  peony,  proudly  aspiring, 

With  no  fragrance  a  lover  to  bless  ; 
But  a  mignonette,  sweet  and  retiring, 

Is  my  girl  in  the  calico  dress.   - 

My  lady  may  freeze  when  I  bow, 

Or  as  bright  as  a  houri  may  beam  ; 
I  watch  not  her  moods,  for  I  vow 

That  her  charms  very  poor  to  me  seem, 
For  there's  never  a  maid  in  all  story 

So  worthy  a  prince's  caress, 
And  nothing  so,  fair  out  of  glory 

As  my  girl  in  the  calico  dress  ! 


Stye  ^mner-JJaU  Brigade. 

WHEN"  morning's  chilly  grayness 
First  glimmers  in  the  sky, 
I  hear  their  whistled  gayness, 

I  see  them  frayward  hie. 
From  humble  street  and  alley, 
In  garb  of  every  trade, 


22  Songs  of  tlie  Lowly. 

The  sturdy  heroes  sally 
Of  the  dinner-pail  brigade. 

Strong-limbed  and  gallant  yeomen, 

Brown-cheeked  and  fearless-eyed  — 
The  whole  wide  world  has  no  men 

So  worthy  of  its  pride. 
The  gilded  sons  of  Pleasure, 

And  sloths  of  every  grade, 
Are  but  earth's  trash ;  her  treasure 

Is  the  dinner-pail  brigade. 

They  conquer  nature's  wildness, 

Her  mood  of  rock  and  thorn, 
Until,  in  fruitful  mildness, 

She  yields  us  wine  and  corn. 
And  where  the  wild  beast  haunted 

They  plant  the  roof-tree's  shade  — 
The  pioneers  undaunted 

Of  the  dinner-pail  brigade. 

The  land  their  cities  cover — 

Hives  both  for  drones  and  bees  ; 
Their  white  sails  flit  and  hover 

O'er  all  the  merry  seas ; 
They  delve  where  darkly  hidden 

The  ages'  hoards  are  laid ; 
Earth  has  no  wealth  forbidden 

To  the  dinner-pail  brigade. 

0  weary,  patient  brothers, 
This  is  Time's  greatest  sin, 

That  you  should  drudge  for  others, 
Should  build  and  not  go  in ; 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  23 

That  thieves  should  claim  the  plenty 

Which  God  for  all  has  made, 
And  dole  out  pittance  scanty 

To  the  dinner-pail  brigade. 

Cheer,  brothers,  cheer,  for  plainly 

Dawn  blushes  in  the  sky  ; 
Those  who  have  long  prayed  vainly 

Shall  learn  a  battle-cry. 
Hold  out  a  little  longer  : 

The  few  shall  wax  afraid, 
Seeing  they  are  not  stronger 

Than  the  dinner-pail  brigade. 

For,  as  the  day  shines  clearer, 

We  see  with  wiser  eyes ; 
Despised  worths  seem  dearer, 

And  men  look  all  one  size  ; 
Old  values  wax  romantic, 

Kings  and  their  creatures  fade, 
While  looms  each  form  gigantic 

In  the  dinner-pail  brigade  ! 


Jouttb  m  \\}t  Cake. 

HERE  on  this  marble  slab  she  lies, 
Staring  with  sightless  eyes. 
Her  cheek  is  white  as  marble  now, 
And  her  unwrinkled  brow, 
Where  raven  tresses  creep  and  trail, 
Is  more  than  lily  pale. 


24  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 

She's  not  your  loved  one.     Gently  place 
The  sheet  upon  her  face : 

She  is  too  frail  a  thing  and  fail- 
To  lie  uncovered  there 

Among  the  city's  unknown  dead, 
Upon  such  horrid  bed. 

These  are  mere  flotsam  from  life's  sea  — 
These  ghastly  things — but  she, 

More  like  some  white  shell  washed  ashore 
Amid  its  ceaseless  roar. 

And  no  one  knows  her.     All  that  come 
Gaze  curiously  dumb, 

With  sickened  heart  and  stifled  breath, 
At  mystery  and  death. 

She  is  not  yours,  nor  yours.     Perchance, 

With  hungry,  eager  glance, 
Some  frightened  woman  may  rush  in 

Among  these  wrecks  of  sin  ; 
May  find  what  she  has  come  to  seek, 

And,  with  a  sudden  shriek, 
Yea,  with  a  mother's  frenzy,  fill 

This  haunt  of  gloom  and  chill. 
In  such  omnipotence  of  pain 

Death  would  forget  his  reign  : 
Those  lips,  and  that  all-hallowed  brow, 

So  sweetly  sacred  now, 
Where  Death  has  set  his  seal  of  snow, 

A  mother's  kiss  would  know. 
But  then,  as  now,  those  eyes  would  stare, 

Unlit  by  joy  or  care. 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  25 

How  wonderful  is  Death  !     How  dread  ! 

If  aught  could  raise  the  dead  — 
If  any  power,  below,  above  — 

It  were  a  mother's  love. 


"Found  in  the  lake."     Enough  to  know 

That  God  would  have  it  so. 
Ah  !  then  forbear  to  question  why 

She  deemed  it  sweet  to  lie 
And  let  the  cooling  water  swirls 

Toy  with  her  glossy  curls. 
All  night  upon  her  lily  breast 

The  soft  waves  gently  pressed  ; 
All  night  they  sang  upon  the  shore 

Low  love-songs  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
All  night  they  rocked  her  in  her  sleep, 

Dreamless,  and  long,  and  deep. 
"Found  in  the  lake."     What  more  to  say  ? 

Let  science  stand  away. 
It  matters  not  if  sin's  despair 

Haunted  and  drove  her  there  ; 
More  perfect  eyes,  in  clearer  light, 

Will  judge  her  deeds  aright. 
Then  leave  a  fresh  flower  with  her  here, 

Or,  fairer  still,  a  tear. 

Go  out  into  the  noisy  strife 

Of  this  great  city's  life  ; 

There  is  no  time  to  think  of  death, 
No  time  for  rest  or  breath, 

No  time  for  sentiment  or  tears, 


26  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 

For  aught  that  soothes  or  cheers. 
Great  wagons  rattle  in  the  street, 

The  pave  is  loud  with  feet, 
And  shod  hoofs  clatter  011  the  stones. 

If  any  cries  or  moans 
Ring  feebly  out,  the  voice  of  pain 

Is  lost  in  sounds  of  gain. 
Oh,  madness  of  it  all !     What  meed 

Can  sate  such  boundless  greed  ? 
White  phantom  of  the  morgue,  I  pray, 

Haunt  me  by  night  and  day  ; 
Wide-open  eyes,  stare  into  mine, 

Reproachful,  sad,  divine, 
Until  my  heart,  no  longer  dumb 

In  all  this  roar  and  hum, 
Wakes  merciful  to  any  cry 

Of  hearts  that  bleed  and  die. 


2ln0%r  Christmas, 
i. 

0  CHRIST,  again  we  celebrate  thy  birth.  " 
Last  night,  a  sound  of  sudden  carol  singing 
Came  floating  in  on  many  a  chosen  ear ; 
To-day,  the  tuneful  heavens  far  and  near 
Are  finely  quivering  to  the  distant  ringing 
Of  sweetly  chiming  bells,  or  else  the  sphere 
Is  shivered  by  some  clamorous  crash  more  near. 
In  happy  homes  there  is  a  sound  of  mirth  ; 


Songs  of  the  Lowly,  27 


The  jolly  god,  to  childish  faith  so  dear, 

Has  made  again  his  circuit  of  the  earth. 

Great  country  hearths  their  flames  are  upward  flinging, 

Diffusing  wide  a  flickering,  rosy  glow 

O'er  waiting  board  and  pendent  mistletoe, 

And  many  a  scene  where  joy  and  plenty  dwells  ; 

And  prancing  steeds  come  bounding  o'er  the  snow, 

Shaking  a  rhythmic  jangle  from  their  bells. 

II. 

How  meet  it  is  that  merry  Christmas  tide 
Should  come  when  Winter,  merciless  and  drear, 

Has  laid  his  hand  of  ice  to  Nature's  side, 
And  chilled  awhile  her  kindly  heart  with  fear. 

The  dusky  grape,  that  erst  in  Autumn  reigns, 
Lurked  pregnant,  clustered  deep  in  green-leaved  vine, 

Gleaned  in  all  fields,  with  song  and  merry  pains, 
Fills  vat  and  cask  with  rich  and  mellow  wine. 

The  yellow  corn,  that  caught  the  very  tint 
Of  late  Autumna's  saddest  parting  smile, 

Fills  the  bulged  crib  —  no  need  for  studied  stint, 
Though  "Winter  howls  in  aimless  rage  the  while. 

Then  lay  the  Yule  log  on  its  couch  of  fire ; 

Pile  high  the  board  with  bounteous  hand  and  free ; 
Fill  the  old  hall ;  let  gray-haired  dame  and  sire 

Mix  their  shrill  merriment  with  childhood's  glee. 

in. 

There  is  a  scene  of  woe  for  every  feast, 
And  none  may  laugh  but  what  some  other  sighs ; 


28  •     Songs  of  the  Lowly. 

Curses  with  every  grateful  prayer  arise  ; 
There  is  no  birth  but  what  some  heart  has  ceased. 

My  ship,  perchance,  comes  safely  home  to  me  — 
Hope-laden ;  now  she  nears  the  quiet  port. 
Some  other  bark,  of  waves  and  winds  the  sport, 

Sinks  even  now  beneath  a  cruel  sea. 

Within  the  church,  proud  Beauty  bows  her  head, 
Or  humbly  kneels  to  God  in  worship  meet. 
Without,  the  shivering  wretches  on  the  street 

Would  gladly  give  their  very  souls  for  bread. 

The  gods  are  partial  :  they  give  wealth  untold, 
With  palaces  and  garnered  stores,  to  some  ; 
But  others  are  with  silent  misery  dumb, 

Or  prate  of  vengeance,  by  despair  made  bold. 


0  Christ !  Infinity  of  Tenderness, 

Gre  at  Heart  of  Love  itself !    It  matters  not 

Whether  thou  wert  indeed  a  living  truth, 

God  dwelling  with  us  in  our  flesh  and  blood, 

Or,  as  the  doubters  of  this  latter  day, 

Who  cannot  thrust  their  fingers  in  thy  side, 

Would  have  the  world  believe,  but  an  ideal 

Shaped  by  the  better  yearnings  of  our  race. 

Thou  art  all-worthy  of  all  reverence. 

Ah,  wise  were  they  who,  following  first  thy  star, 

Came  from  far  countries  in  the  fabled  East 

To  bow  their  gray  heads  to  the  Babe  of  Peace. 

That  star  alone  can  light  and  warm  the  world. 

And  if,  e'en  while  these  Christmas  bells  are  chiming, 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  20 

Gaunt  Misery  stalks  the  city's  crowded  lanes ; 

If  Famine  peers  through  many  a  rag-stopped  pane 

On  scenes  of  squalor  and  disease  within, 

Or  boldly  enters  side  by  side  with  Death, 

It  is  because  the  loving  Christ,  who  said, 

Sell  that  thou  hast,  and  give  unto  the  poor," 

Has  in  these  Christmas  feastings  been  forgot. 


So  an  (£ngli0l)  Qparroto. 

IS  it  springtime,  my  pert  little  sparrow? 
I  hear  your  voice,  honest  and  shrill  ; 
I  see  you  out  there  on  the  narrow 

Promenade  of  my  bleak  window-sill. 
When  the  blues  came,  my  spirits  to  harrow, 
You  darted  in  sight  like  an  arrow, 

Piping  "  Cheer  up  !     Cheer  up  ! " 
So  loud  on  your  tiny,  blithe  quill. 

I  like  you,  my  brave,  saucy  Briton  ; 

You've  a  way  that  has  captured  my  heart ; 
And  though  others  your  failings  may  twit  on, 

I'm  a  friend  that  will  e'er  take  your  part. 
And,  as  much  as  you  wish,  you  may  sit  on 
My  sill,  which  ^ou  often  have  lit  on, 

Singing  "  Cheer  up  !     Cheer  up  ! " 

With  a  fervor  much  sweeter  than  art. 

Few  people,  I  know,  praise  your  singing, 
And  I  own  that  your  harsh  vocal  powers 

Can't  compete  with  the  robin's  voice  ringing 
Every  June  in  the  hush  morning  hours ; 


30  Songs  of  tlve  Lowly. 

I  confess  that  the  lark,  upward  winging, 
And  the  bobolink's  silver  throat  flinging 

"  Bobolink!     Bobolink!" 
Add  a  charm  to  the  seasons  of  flowers. 

But  when  winds  of  midwinter  were  blowing, 
And  the  window-panes  rattled  with  sleet, 

And  the  heavens  were  gray,  and  'twas  snowing, 
What  became  of  those  visitors  sweet  ? 

When  we  needed  them  most  they  were  going ; 

But  you  stayed,  your  stout  heart  overflowing 

In  that  "  Cheer  up  !     Cheer  up  ! " 
Which  I've  heard  you  so  often  repeat. 

Your  enemies  say  you're  a  fighter. 

Ah  well,  what  of  that  ?    So  am  I. 
I  will  sing  if  'tis  darker  or  lighter  — 

You  have  taught  me  a  gay  battle-cry. 
When  Fortune's  against  me,  despite  her 
I  will  wait  for  the  days  that  are  brighter, 
Singing  "  Cheer  up  !     Cheer  up  ! " 

I  will  fight  and  will  sing  till  I  die. 


Song  of  tlje  Busker. 

HARK  !  far  in  the  field  over  yonder 
'Tis  the  corn-husker  merrily  sings. 
Oh,  why  is  he  happy,  I  wonder, 

As  the  ears  in  the  basket  he  flings  ? 
As  he  plucks  the  dry  covers  asunder, 
And  reveals  the  smooth  grain  gleaming  under, 
And  the  ears  in  the  basket  he  flings  ? 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  31 

f  Ah,  here  is  a  plump  one,  and  yellow, 

And  here  is  another  as  fine, 
And  that  was  more  fair  than  its  fellow, 

And  this  has  a  color  divine  ; " 
So  his  voice,  by  the  distance  made  mellow, 
Has  a  musical  cadence  and  swell,  oh  ! 

A  swell  and  a  cadence  divine  ! 

Blithe  husker,  cease  not  from  your  singing, 
Though  my  sadness  I  cannot  control ; 

While  the  ears  you  are  carelessly  flinging, 
I  think  of  the  state  of  my  soul  — 

These  words  in  my  brain  keep  a-ringing : 
1  What  harvest  to  God  am  I  bringing 

Should  death  tear  the  husk  from  my  soul  'if" 


6mttl)2  Song. 

WHEN  I  am  half  a-dreaming 
And  only'  half  asleep, 
When  daylight's  grayest  gleaming 

'Gins  through  the  blinds  to  peep, 
Oh,  then  I  hear  the  dinging 
Of  the  smithy  hammers  ringing, 
Ching,  ching,  ching,  ching, 
Ching,  ching,  ching,  ching. 

At  eve,  when  Fm  returning 

From  labors  of  the  day, 
Their  forges  yet  are  burning, 

And  still  their  hammers  play, 


32  Songs  of  the  Loicly. 

And  oft  the  smiths  are  singing 
To  that  measured,  merry  ringing, 

Ching,  ching,  ching,  cliing. 

Ching,  cliing,  ching,  ching. 

Sometimes,  with  rhythmic  bending 

Of  bodies  to  and  fro, 
They  toil  in  couples,  sending 

The  sparks  out,  blow  on  blow, 
One  hammer  always  swinging 
The  while  the  other's  ringing, 

Ching,  ching,  ching,  ching, 

Ching,  ching,  ching,  ching. 

0  merry  anvils  sounding 
All  day  till  set  of  sun ! 

It  is  by  steady  pounding 
That  noblest  tasks  are  done. 

By  sturdy  blows  and  swinging, 

That  keep  the  world  a-ringing, 
Ching,  ching,  ching,  ching, 
Ching,  ching,  ching,  ching. 


cmfr 


I  SAW  her  roll  by  in  her  carriage, 
Lolling  there  in  luxurious  pride  ; 
She  has  grown  very  fine  since  her  marriage, 
Though  her  husband,  just  then  glancing  up,  he 
Didn't  seem  at  all  pleased  with  his  bride. 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  33 

In  fact,  he  looked  angry  and  jealous  ; 

She  was  fondling  a  pug  at  her  chin, 
With  kisses,  affectionate,  zealous  — 
Bah  !  a  woman  so  fond  of  a  puppy 

Is  ugly,  though  charming  as  sin  ! 

Just  then  I  espied  on  the  crossing 

A  poorly  dressed  woman  and  plain, 
Caressingly  dandling  and  tossing, 
In  a  manner  as  gentle  as  may  be, 

Her  baby,  again  and  again. 

She  peeked  'neath  the  cunning  poke  bonnet 

At  the  tiny  face  nestling  within, 
And  her  eyes,  as  they  feasted  upon  it  — 
Why,  a  woman  so  fond  of  a  baby 

Is  charming,  though  ugly  as  sin  ! 


$e0terira£,  So-bag,  So-morroro. 

SHALL  we  sing  till  we  find  ourselves  hoary 
Of  the  years  that  will  no  more  return  ? 
Shall  we  live  with  the  dead  but  in  story, 

And  our  hearts  o'er  the  past  ever  yearn  ? 
Ah,  no  !  we  are  sjck  of  the  glory  of  kings  and  their 

victories  gory, 
Their  fame  and  their  wisdom  we  spurn. 

Shall  we  say  that  our  fathers  fared  better 
Jn  the  days  of  their  being  than  we  ? 

This  age  to  their  time  is  no  debtor — 
We  have  learned  that  we  dare  to  be  free. 


34  Songs  of  tlie  Lowly. 

We  will  strike  off  each  time-honored  fetter,  in  peace 

or  on  battlefields  wetter 
And  more  red  than  the  world  cares  to  see. 

The  past  with  its  tombstones  is  lying 

In  a  valley  of  deepening  night ; 
To-day  has  less  sorrow  and  sighing, 

Less  fear  of  the  future,  less  blight ; 
But  the  voice  of  To-morrow  is  crying :    "Here  the 
white  feet  of  Noon-tide  are  flying, 

And  the  mountains  are  splendid  with  light ! " 


2to  %  Cake 

O  HOKEWARD,  fly  shoreward,  0  Breeze  of  the  Lake, 
^5     Over  the  waters  on  fleet  pinions  flee, 
Bringing  new  courage  and  strength  in  thy  wake, 
Joy  for  the  spirits  that  droop  for  thy  sake, 
Life  for  the  souls  that  are  fainting  for  thee. 

Spread  out  thy  wings  like  the  wings  of  a  gull, 
Widely  and  whitely,  just  grazing  the  wave ; 

Pause  not  to  frolic,  f oani  blossoms  to  cull ; 

Come  with  sea  whispers  our  fever  to  lull. 
Speed,  gentle  goddess,  the  dying  to  save. 

Come  to  the  toilers  of  brawn  and  of  brain 
Bravely  and  willingly  winning  their  bread  ; 

Lighten  their  labors  and  lessen  their  pain  ; 

Haste,  ere  to  hasten  be  mockery  vain  — 

Wouldst  thou  but  fondle  the  cheeks  of  the  dead  ? 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  35 

Come  to  the  army  of  factory  girls, 

Toiling  in  attic  and  toiling  in  shop  ; 
Bring  them  a  message  of  cool  water-swirls, 
Pet  the  pale  faces  and  toy  with  the  curls, 
Kiss  the  poor  fingers  that  never  may  stop. 

Visit  the  victims  of  cruel  disease, 

Dying  in  hovels  or  palaces  grand ; 
Tell  them  of  meadows  and  leafiest  trees, 
Lisp  them  a  ditty  of  wind-wimpled  seas, 

Offer  thy  wine  with  invisible  hand. 

Visit  the  tenement  babies  to-day, 

Woo  them  to  laughter  and  brighten  their  eyes  ; 
Haste  thee  ere  Jesus  shall  call  them  away 
Out  to  the  country,  and  let  them  in  play 

Troop  o'er  the  valleys  of  dear  Paradise. 

Hither,  fly  hither,  0  Sprite  of  the  Lake, 
Over  the  billows  on  white  pinions  flee, 
Bringing  fresh  courage  and  strength  in  thy  wake, 
Joy  for  the  spirits  that  faint  for  thy  sake, 
Hope  for  the  souls  that  are  dying  for  thee. 


JJcor." 

DIVES  and  I  on  crowded  street 
An  aged  beggar  chanced  to  meet ; 
Dives  passed  by  with  sterile  frown, 
And  said,  to  argue  conscience  down  : 
I  treat  all  such  with  rule  unswerving. 
How  can  one  know  when  they're  deserving?" 


36  Songs  of  the  Loivly. 


11  You're  right,"  I  cried,  with  nodding  head 
(I  toil  for  Dives  for  my  bread) ; 
But  since  the  mind  is  heaven-born, 
And  earthly  fetters  holds  in  scorn, 
I  thought :  "That  wretch,  and  many  more, 
Starve  through  those  words,  'Deserving  poor."J 

And  then,  because  I  haply  knew 

How  Dives  rich  and  richer  grew, 

I  sneered  (in  thought):  "Such  careful  alms, 

Such  nice,  discriminating  qualms, 

Should  be  observed  in  rule  unswerving 

But  by  the  rich  who  are  deserving." 


•21  dorner  in  tOljeat. 

(DEDICATED  TO  A  FAMOUS  CHICAGO  SPECULATOR. ) 

4  N  old  man  sat  in  a  dingy  room, 
•**  And  a  queer  old  man  was  he  : 
He  was  angle  and  point  from  his  elbow  joint 

To  the  crook  of  his  awkward  knee ; 
His  legs  were  long,  and  his  face  was  long, 

And  as  sad  as  a  face  could  be  ; 
But  his  eyes  were  bright  with  a  dangerous  light, 
As  he  hummed  with  ghoulish  glee  : 
"  Only  a  penny  a  loaf, 
Only  a  penny  a  loaf ; 
'Tis  only  a  penny  a  loaf  to  the  poor, 
But  it's  millions  of  dollars  to  me." 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  37 

He  bought  all  the  bread  in  town  one  day, 

And  the  poor  man  cursed  amain  ; 
But  little  he  cared  how  the  eaters  fared  — 

He  was  not  in  a  caring  vein. 
For  the  golden  wheat,  that  was  made  to  eat, 

To  him  was  a  thing  for  gain ; 
So  his  features  thin  wore  a  ghastly  grin 

As  he  hummed  this  merry  strain  : 
"  Only  a  penny  a  loaf, 
Only  a  penny  a  loaf ; 
'Tis  only  a  penny  a  loaf  to  the  poor, 
But  it's  millions  of  dollars  to  me/' 

The  poor  man  sat  at  his  meager  board, 

With  his  wife  and  children  near. 
Oh,  they  saw  not,  I  ween,  the  phantom  lean 

That  gazed  on  their  feast  with  a  leer ; 
And  they  never  thought  that  a  guest  unsought, 

The  wraith  of  an  old  man  queer, 
Stood  silent  and  grim  in  a  corner  dim, 

And  whispered  this  chorus  drear : 
' '  Only  a  penny  a  loaf, 
Only  a  penny  a  loaf ; 
'Tis  only  a  penny  to  you,  my  dears, 
And  it's  millions  of  dollars  to  me  ! " 


38el)inir  tt)e 

BEHIND  the  scenes  the  player  king 
Wears  but  a  worthless  crown  ; 
He  casts  it  by  with  careless  fling 
And  hobnobs  with  the  clown. 


38  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 


The  lover,  knave,  and  yokel  low, 

The  princess  in  her  teens, 
Are  all  one  station  if  you  go 
Behind  the  scenes. 

Behind  the  scenes — two-edged  thought 

To  prick  inflated  worth  ! 
Mouth  well  the  lines  ye  have  been  taught, 

0  great  ones  of  the  earth ; 
Stride  grandly  in  your  rich  array, 

Lords,  ladies,  kings  and  queens: 
There's  One  that  watcheth  you  alway 
Behind  the  scenes. 


iUorttr  in  2000. 


THAT'S  a  wonderful  book  Edward  Bellamy  writes 
Concerning  the  world  in  2000, 
And  all  of  his  readers  he  greatly  delights 

With  his  tale  of  the  world  in  2000. 
How  sorry  we  feel  that  such  marvelous  sights, 
Such  heavenly  days  and  such  musical  nights, 
Such  moral  and  mental  and  physical  heights, 
Must  all  be  put  off  till  2000  ! 

The  spirit  of  Christ  will  triumphantly  reign 

When  time  has  arrived  at  2000, 
And  selfishness  long  in  its  grave  will  have  lain, 

In  the  year  of  this  era  2000. 
Oh,  men  will  be  sorry  for  each  other's  pain, 
Starvation  and  care  will  not  drive  them  insane, 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  39 

And  glory  shall  seem  to  them  better  than  gain 
When  they  find  themselves  safe  in  2000. 

All  men  will  be  equal  and  all  will  be  free  — 

Alas,  must  we  wait  till  2000  ? 
No  rich  on  the  earth  and  no  poor  will  there  be  — 

0  Time,  hasten  on  tow'rd  2000  ! 
To  God,  and  God  only,  will  Toil  bend  the  knee, 
No  strikes  and  no  riots  will  workmen  decree, 
And  the  weak  from  the  strong  will  have  no  cause  to  flee 

When  the  race  has  at  last  reached  2000. 

The  combines  and  trusts  will  be  all  of  them  dead  — 

But  not,  Fm  afraid,  till  2000. 
And  the  last  of  the  lawyers  long  since  will  have  plead 

Ere  that  red-letter  epoch  2000. 
Public  place  will  with  honor  forever  be  wed, 
And  no  briber  of  juries  will  dare  show  his  head, 
For  they  all  will  be  scorching  in  Limbo  instead  — 

Oh  my,  don't  we  wish  'twas  2000  ! 

Obscure  authors  and  artists  will  all  have  fair  play 

When  Eternity's  clock  marks  2000  ; 
For  merit  alone  will  expect  right  of  way — 

Alas,  'tis  so  long  till  2000  ! 
Real  poets  and  writers  will  shine  in  that  day, 
And  none  will  be  heard  who  have  nothing  to  say  — 
Oh,  how  would  our  sonneteers  marvel  if  they 

Should  chance  to  wake  up  in  2000  ! 

Many  other  strange  things  Mr.  Bellamy  writes 

Concerning  the  world  in  2000. 
I  am  thinking  o'  days  and  I'm  dreaming  o'  nights 

Of  the  happiness  there  in  2000. 


40  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 


For  the  poor  are  as  dogs,  snarling  over  their  rights, 
While  the  rich  sail  above  like  a  bevy  of  kites, 
And  our  children  will  long  have  forgotten  the  sites 
Of  our  graves  in  the  days  of  2000. 


Christian  anfr  $)agan. 

' "DREAD  and  the  circus/'  hoarsely  roared, 
-L*     Before  Christ  came,  the  Roman  horde  ; 
And  pagan  Caesar  deemed  it  wise 
To  glut  its  stomach  and  its  eyes. 

In  this  our  year  of  Christian  grace 
Great  Mammon  reigns  in  Caesar's  place. 
What  is  that  wail  to  heaven  sped  ? 
Shame  of  the  ages  !     "  Work  or  bread  !" 


Jor  tUant  of  Brmtl). 

A  POOR  city  babe  lay  dying  one  day 
On  a  ragged  and  dirty  cot, — 
Lay  quietly  gasping  its  life  away 
In  a  basement  squalid  and  hot. 
0  God,  for  a  sniif  of  cool,  sweet  air  — 

Just  one  for  the  child  and  its  mother ; 
For  the  heart  that  bleeds  so  helplessly  there, 
And  the  babe  that  must  lie  there  and  smother 

The  farmer's  boy  is  a  cheerful  sight 
As  he  sits  on  the  floor  in  the  sun ; 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  41 

How  he  doubles  his  fists  in  mimic  might, 

How  lusty  his  grief  and  fun  ! 
Oh,  full  of  life  all  day  is  the  breeze, 

From  the  fields  of  the  farmer  coming, 
For  it  dallied  awhile  'mid  leafy  trees, 

And  awhile  where  bees  were  humming. 

The  fisherman's  boy  is  at  play  on  the  sand  — 

How  sturdy  and  plump  he  grows  ! 
There  is  strength  in  the  grip  of  his  chubby  hand, 

And  his  lips  are  as  red  as  a  rose. 
Oh,  sweet  are  the  breezes  born  at  sea 

And  cradled  in  white  foam  flowers, — 
Sweet  and  cool,  when  waves  are  like  grass  on  a  lea, 

Cool  and  keen  when  a  tempest  lowers. 

The  babe  in  the  tenement  house  is  dead, 

With  none  but  its  mother  to  weep ; 
Then  lay  it  to  rest  in  that  narrow  bed 

Where  the  sleepers  breathe  not  in  their  sleep. 
0  breezes  that  wander,  at  will  alway, 

If  ashore  or  where  sea-scud  is  flying, 
There  are  thousands  of  poor  city  babes  to-day 

That  are  smothering,  fainting,  dying  ! 


5Dt0c0nttnt 

OGOD,  for  the  roar  of  battle, 
For  the  bayonet's  dancing  shine, 
And  the  long  and  merry  rattle 
Of  musketry  down  the  line  ! 


42  Songs  of  the  Lotvly. 


And  oh,  for  the  cannons'  crashing 

From  the  battery  on  the  hill, 
And  the  swords  of  the  horsemen  flashing 

As  they  charge  with  a  right  good  will ! 

Away,  like  a  whirlwind  driven, 

While  a  thrill  through  the  sound  earth  runs  ; 
Away  in  the  smoke,  blaze-riven, 

Till  we  fall  on  the  men  at  the  guns. 

And  oh,  for  the  broadsides  shaking 

The  grim  old  hulls  in  the  bay ; 
And  the  boat  of  the  orderly  making 

Through  the  tempest  its  gallant  way  ! 

We  are  smitten  with  psychic  languor ; 

Dry  rot  is  benumbing  our  minds ; 
There  is  in  us  110  love  nor  anger, 

And  our  hearts  are  the  hearts  of  hinds. 

We  are  slaves  of  lucre  and  fashion ; 

It  is  custom  our  age  that  shapes, 
Till  we  wed  without  heart  or  passion, 

And  are  getting  a  race  of  apes. 

Our  women  are  all  for  money ; 

Each  dupe  of  us  buys  his  wife  ; 
Their  bosoms  are  wax  without  honey, — 

They  are  marble,  unloved  to  life. 

There  is  freedom  of  speech  no  longer, 
And  scarcely  freedom  of  thought, 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  43 

For  the  man  with  the  vault  is  stronger 
Than  the  soul  with  an  errand  fraught. 

The  rich  to  the  rich  are  brothers, 

And  the  poor  to  the  poor  alone, 
And  the  heart  of  the  hero  smothers 

Like  an  acorn  beneath  a  stone. 

Then  oh,  for  the  trumpets'  clamor 

And  the  roll  of  answering  drums, 
And  oh,  for  the  fire  and  glamour 

With  the  song  of  the  fife  that  comes  ! 

For  I  ween  that  the  first  deep  thunder 
Of  the  guns  like  a  spell  would  fall, 

And  the  smoke,  ere  it  crept  asunder, 
Would  enlarge  and  revive  us  all. 

For  the  miser  would  give  his  treasure 

Which  he  stifles  his  soul  to  save, 
And  the  heiress  would  leap  with  pleasure 

At  the  deeds  of  her  father's  slave. 

They  are  selling  ribbons — our  heroes, 

Our  captains  are  weighing  tea, 
Our  colonels  are  merchants'  zeros, 

Our  admirals  far  from  sea. 

And  it's  oh,  for  the  muskets'  rattle, 
-  And  the  fife's  entrancing  call, 
For  it's  better  to  die  in  battle 
Than  never  to  live  at  all. 


44  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 


(Dnt0  anb  3ns. 


rpHROUGH  years  of  mirth  and  years  of  woe, 

J-    Through  rifts  where  dawn-light  seems  to  glow, 

And  on  through  deeps  of  awful  gloom, 

This  old  world  drifts  to  meet  its  doom  ; 

And  ceaselessly  it  hums  and  spins 

To  the  dreary  tune  of  the  Outs  and  Ins. 

The  Outs  are  slaves,  who  deem  this  life 
A  time  for  labor,  care  and  strife. 
All,  further  back  than  memory  runs 
Myriads  have  bowed  to  greater  ones  ; 
And  e'en  with  History's  self  begins 
The  story  of  the  Outs  and  Ins. 

The  Ins  all  dwell  in  palaces, 
And  have  no  cares  but  those  of  ease  ; 
On  naught  save  choicest  meats  they  dine, 
And  always  drink  the  oldest  wine  ; 
The  while  the  gay  world,  dancing,  spins 
To  the  merry  tune  of  the  Outs  and  Ins. 

The  Outs  are  housed  on  squalid  streets, 
Where  crime  with  poverty  retreats  ; 
They  toil  for  plenty's  scraps  and  crumbs, 
Their  children  freeze  when  winter  comes  ; 
The  while  the  sad  world  moans  and  spins 
To  the  dismal  tune  of  the  Outs  and  Ins. 

The  Ins  are  born  of  finest  clay, 

The  gods  bend  down  to  hear  them  pray  ; 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  45 

Chance  smiles  upon  them  at  their  birth, 
And  during  all  their  days  on  earth 
This  bright  old  planet  gayly  spins 
To  the  jolly  tune  of  the  Outs  and  Ins. 

Of  coarsest  clay  the  Outs  are  born — 

A  heritage  of  toil  and  scorn  ; 

And  they  may  curse,  or  may  implore 

Our  God  and  all  the  gods  of  yore ; 

But  still  the  dark  earth  shrieks  and  spins 

To  the  bitter  tune  of  the  Outs  and  Ins. 

Ah  me  !    And  so,  in  life  and  death, 

We  cling  to  Him  of  Nazareth ; 

Of  blessed  Lazarus  we  tell, 

And  Dives,  dead  and  gone  to  hell ; 

Because  this  old  earth  only  spins 

To  the  dreary  tune  of  the  Outs  and  Ins. 


don0olatlon. 

rpHEEE'S  another  land  and  better, 

We  are  told ; 

Where  the  slave  shakes  off  his  fetter, 
And  where  woYth  is  never  debtor 

Unto  gold. 

Thither  often  are  we  turning 

Weary  eyes ; 

And  our  heavy  hearts  are  yearning, 
Night  and  day  are  throbbing,  burning 

For  its  skies. 


46  Songs  of  the  Loivly. 


There  that  foolish  superstition, 

Pride  of  birth, 
Finds  its  sudden  demolition, 
And  our  being's  final  mission 

Is  of  worth. 

There  the  insolence  of  power 

Falls  away, 

And  the  proudest  soul  must  cower, 
For  the  spirit  takes  no  dower 

From  the  clay. 

Common  lives  have  wondrous  splendor 

In  that  light ; 

For  the  spirit  meek  and  tender 
Puts  to  shame  the  king's  defender, 

Shorn  of  might. 

Natures  touched  with  fires  seraphic 

Shed  their  care ; 

And  on  peace-girt  islands  Sapphic, 
Far  from  fretful  toil  and  traffic, 

Dream  and  dare. 

Laws  through  years  of  wrong  descended, 

There  are  changed ; 
Customs  with  injustice  blended, 
Creeds  for  centuries  defended, 

Rearranged. 

Heaven  has  solace  without  measure. 

You  and  I 

Should  not  dream  of  earthly  pleasure, 
But  should  think  upon  our  treasure 

In  the  sky. 


Songs  of  the  Loivly.  47 

®l)£  Hag  Carpet. 

I  WON'T  oppose  Mariar, 
An'  stomp  around  an'  fume 
About  that  brustlin'  carpet 

For  our  front  settin'-room. 
She's  kep'  her  eend  up  allus, 

I've  never  seed  her  shirk  ; 
She  oughter  sheer  th'  pleasure, 

Because  she  sheered  the  work. 
So  if  she  says  a  brustlin' 

I'll  hev  to  answer,  "  Yes/' 
Tho'  why  she  thinks  'em  purty 

Gits  me,  I  must  confess. 

I'm  awful  feared  that  vain  pride 

Has  ketched  her  in  its  mesh, 
An'  that  she'll  starve  her  sperrit 

An'  pomper  up  her  flesh. 
She'll  want  that  carpet  fetched  home 

Wuth  mighty  'how-d'ye-do, 
Perched  high  upon  the  waggin, 

In  all  the  neighbors'  view  ; 
An'  when  she  gits  it  nailed  down, 

She'll  shut  the  curtains  tight, 
Fur  fear  her  precious  brustlin' 

'LI  ketch  a  ray  o'  light. 

Oh,  yes,  I  s'pose  hereafter 

That  our  front  settin'-room 
'LI  be  a  place  o'  grandeur, 

0'  mystery  an'  gloom  ; 


48  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 


Whenever  I  go  in  there 

To  look  its  wonders  o'er 
I'll  have  to  pull  my  boots  off 

An'  leave  'em  at  the  door. 
Or  p'r'aps  she'll  lay  down  long  trails 

Of  oilcloth  everywhere, 
Fer  me  to  wander  round  on 

Ef  I  should  venture  there. 

Oh  well,  I  hardly  blame  'er: 

She's  had  an  uphill  time 
Sence  we  sot  out  together, 

An'  life  was  in  its  prime. 
At  first  we  felt  so  cheerful, 

So  full  of  vim  and  hope, 
We  thought  there  wa'n't  no  trouble 

Wuth  which  we  couldn't  cope ; 
We  thought  we'd  pay  off-  easy 

The  morgige  on  the  place, — 
But  thirty  years  wuth  intrust 

'Twas  neck  and  neck  a  race. 

She  done  the  family  washin', 

She  pounded,  wrung  an'  rubbed  ; 
She  kep'  the  house  in  order, 

She  cleaned  an'  scoured  and  scrubbed  ; 
She  cooked  for  all  the  hired  men 

That  worked  upon  the  farm  — 
She's  fed  a  dozen  thrashers 

Wuth  a  baby  on  'er  arm  ! 
She  milked  an'  done  the  churnin', 

An'  city  people  found 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  49 

Her  butter  was  the  sweetest 
For  miles  an'  miles  around. 

She  saved  up  all  the  meat  scraps 

And  made  'em  into  soap, 
An',  tho'  it  took  the  skin  off, 

We  washed  us  with  the  dope. 
She  done  the  family  sewin' 

An'  made  the  children  fine, 
She  kep'  the  boys  in  pants  by 

Eejuvenatin'  mine. 
She  showed  the  children  manners, 

An'  forced  'em  to  obey  ; 
She  wa.tched  their  heads  an'  noses 

An'  learned  em'  how  to  pray. 

An'  now  at  last  the  morgige 

Is  paid  up  fair  an'  square, 
I'll  give  Mariar  credit 

An'  say  she  done  her  share  ; 
She's  earned  her  right  to  pleasures 

That's  differ'nt  from  my  own, 
So  I'll  take  mine  in  restin', 

While  she  goes  in  for  tone. 
An',  anyhow,  in  this  case 

Opposin'  wouldn't  pay  — 
She's  sot  so  on  the  carpet 

She'll  have  it  anyway. 

I  wonder  'f  she  remembers 

How  thirty  years  ago 
I  come  each  night  to  spark  'er 

An'  hoofed  it  through  the  snow  ? 


50  Songs  of  the  Lowly. 

That  night  I  popped  the  question  — 

By  gum,  the  picter  still 
Is  hangin'  round  my  mem'ry, 

An'  leave  it  never  will ! 
She  set  before  the  fireplace, 

Ked-cheeked  and  roguish-eyed, 
An'  what  a  pile  of  old  clothes 

Was  layin'  by  her  side  ! 

Says  she  :  "  Take  off  your  coat,  John, 

I've  work  enough  for  you  ; 
You  know  you're  ornamental, 

You  must  be  useful,  too." 
I  sat  down  there  beside  'er, 

My  heart  beat  like  a  drum  ; 
Thinks  I,  the  time  to  ask  'er 

To-night  has  surely  come. 
I  tore  an'  done  the  cuttin', 

Mariar  sewed  the  strips, 
And  not  a  sound  was  heard  there 

Except  the  rips  and  snips. 

An'  so  'twas  Quaker  meetin' 

Tell  purty  nigh  midnight ; 
I  thought  out  twenty  speeches, 

But  couldn't  start  'em  right, 
Tell  all  at  once,  grown  desprit, 

I  hitched  my  chair  up  nigher, 
An'  chokin'  back  my  feelin's, 

I  blurted  out  "  Mariar!" 
She  dropped  her  work  so  sudden, 

An'  turned  so  deep  a  red, 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  51 

I  knowed  that  I  was  in  for't, 
An'  had  to  go  ahead. 

An'  then,  somehow  or  other 

I  made  'er  understand 
I  thought  she  was  the  best  gal 

That  nater  ever  planned. 
An'  'fore  I  parted  from  'er 

We'd  fixed  things  up  all  right 
To  work  together  allus 

As  we'd  begun  that  night ; 
For,  bein'  sentimental, 

We  couldn't  help  but  claim 
That  life  an'  makin'  carpets 

Was  purty  much  the  same. 

'Tis  us  that  does  the  tearin' 

An'  sewing  up  the  rags, 
But  God  does  all  the  weaving 

With  care  that  never  lags  ; 
An'  when  the  .carpet's  finished, 

An'  when  we  look  it  o'er, 
We'll  find  what  we  put  in  it — 

Not  one  thing  less  nor  more  ; 
We'll  find  it  striped  and  patterned 

An'  colored  through  an'  through, 
About  as  we've  selected 

The  stripes  of  various  hue. 

I  never  hain't  regretted 

That  night  before  the  fire, 
When  I  set  tearin'  rags  an' 

Jined  fortunes  with  Mariar. 


52  Songs  of  the  LowUj. 


But  talk  about  enjoyment ! 

I  lovo  to  ponder  o'er 
Them  first  few  years  we  spent  wuth 

That  carpet  on  the  floor. 
I'll  sneak  up  in  the  garrit, 

An'  think  about  the  past  — 
The  brustlin'  carpet  ery 

Has  struck  our  house  at  last ! 


BabgUm  10  JFallen. 

OBEST  beloved,  who  on  Patmos'  isle 
Heard  trumpet  voices  summon  thee  on  high, 
Seeing  the  gates  of  glory  swing  the  while. 
What  meant  that  angel  with  his  awful  cry  ? 

"Fallen  !  Fallen  !  Fallen  ! 
Is  Babylon  the  great  ! 
Demons  and  vultures  claim  her, 

And  things  of  fear  and  hate." 

* 

And  tell  us,  frenzied  prophet,  our  hearts  are  burning  so, 
What  meant  that  other  angel,  so  long,  so  long  ago  ? 

"Woe,  woe  to  Babylon  !  In  one  day  comes  her  doom, 
The  wrath  of  God  shall  smite  and  utterly  consume ; 
Mourning  and  plagues  shall  come,  famine  and  death 

and  fire, 
For  God  the  Lord  has  judged  her,  and  awful  is  his  ire. 

"  Woe,  woe  to  Babylon  !  Her  dreadful  day  is  here  ; 
Far  off  the  kings  of  earth  stand  weeping  in  their  fear, 


Songs  of  the  Lowly.  53 

And  all  the  merchants  wail  and  cry  in  anguish  sore 
Because  their  merchandise  none  buyeth  any  more. 

"  Woe,  woe  to  Babylon !  For  there  no  more  are  sold 
Silver  and  precious  stones,  fine  linen,  purple,  gold. 
Woe,  woe  the  splendid  city  !  Never  there  again 
Shall  any  man  buy  wheat,  cattle,  or  souls  of  men. 

"  Woe,  woe  to  Babylon  !  For  after  this  dread  day 
No  man  on  flute  or  Jiarp  within  her  walls  shall  play  ; 
And  never  shall  be  beard  the  voice  of  bride  or  groom  — 
Woe,  woe  to  Babylon  !  Behold  her  fearful  doom  ! " 

I  have  read  it  —  this  wonderful  vision ; 

I  have  studied  and  pondered  it  o'er, 
While  hummed  in  my  ears  the  derision 

Of  the  city's  continuous  roar. 

Oh,  to  read  it,  and  drown  the  soul  in  it ; 

To  gloat,  perhaps  more  than  is  meet ; 
To  swoon  o'er  it  —  then  in  a  minute 

To  be  roused  by  the  sounds  of  the  street ! 

Splendid  dreamer  !  Your  promise  ecstatic  . 

Is  before  me  by  day  and  by  night, 
But  it  mocks Ame  the  least  in  my  attic 

With  windows  and  shutters  closed  tight. 


of 


SONGS  OF  THE  HEART. 


£***. 

HOME  from  the  battle  plain 
They  brought  their  bravest  slain  ; 

Qh,  not  with  muffled  driim 
In  sadness  did  they  come, 

And  not  with  measured  tread 
As  those  who  bear  the  dead ; 

But  like  some  Bacchic  throng, 
Madly  they  rushed  along, 

Waving  their  weapons  high, 
Shouting  a  battle-cry. 

"The  city  gates  throw  wide, 
Let  Victory  in,"  they  cried. 

Forth  poured  in  gladness  then 
The  women  and  old  men. 

"All  pratee  to  these,"  they  shout, 
"Who  put  our  foes  to  rout  I" 

But  why  that  sudden  wail, 
Turning  flushed  faces  pale  ? 

It  was  a  voice  that  said  : 
"My  love  is  dead,  is  dead  !" 

(57) 


58  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


"Nay,"  quoth  a  warrior  grim, 
"Weep  not,  my  child,  for  him. 

In  sad  and  desperate  fray 
His  valor  saved  the  day. 

He  fell  upon  tho.  spears 
With  '  Victory  ! '  in  his  ears. 

He  died  with  sword  in  hand 
The  savior  of  our  land. 

In  fame  to  live  and  live, 

This  life  who  would  not  give  ? " 

She  answered  him  and  said  : 
"But  he  is  dead,  is  dead." 

Spake  then  in  bitter  pain 
The  mother  of  the  slain  : 

"And  is  he  dead,  my  son, 
My  beauteous,  peerless  one  ? 

Yet  liefer  would  I  know 
That  thus  he  lieth  low, 

Than  if  he  lived  to  shame 
And  blight  an  honest  name  I" 

"  Aye,"  cried  the  slain  one's  sire, 
Flushing  with  sudden  fire, 

"  Glory  now  hath  the  boy ; 
I  yield  my  all  with  joy  \" 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  59 

Still  o'er  the  stretcher  bent, 
In  grief's  abandonment, 

That  young  wife,  wildly  fair, 
Moaning  in  anguish  there ; 

And  this  is  all  she  said  : 
" My  love  is  dead,  is  dead  I" 

Out  stepped  a  poet  then, 
Great,  though  unknown  of  men. 

"The  task,"  he  cried,  "be  mine 
To  sing  this  deed  divine — 

To  tell  its  beauteous  worth 
For  all  the  years  of  earth ; 

To  wed  it  with  sweet  sound 
While  this  dark  world  goes  round. 

So  shall  his  name  outlast 
These  walls  and  temples  vast, — 

Yea,  e'en  his  native  land, 
Though  ages  drift  like  sand." 

He  ceased.  ^  The  young  wife  said  : 
"  But  he  is  dead,  is  dead  ! " 

Up  then  a  sculptor  spake  : 
< '  Why  sorrow  for  his  sake  ? 

For  I  will  shape  his  face 
In  marble's  deathless  grace ; 


60  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

And  I  will  hew  his  form 
In  living  curves  and  warm, 

Showing  all  after  days 
This  hero  whom  we  praise." 

The  lone  one,  answering,  said  : 
"But  he  is  dead,  is  dead." 

A  painter  next  spake  out : 
"  Mine  be  to  show  war's  rout, 

Wan  hate  and  fury's  spell, — 
The  night  and  fire  of  hell. 

And  tall  amidst  the  gloom 
Our  deathless  dead  shall  loom, 

Pointing  the  fearful  way 
Where  fame  and  victory  lay." 

And  then  a  gladsome  cheer 
Rose  lusty,  far  and  near, 

From  all  but  one,  who  said  : 
"  My  love  is  dead,  is  dead  I" 

Hundreds  of  years  since  then, 
Full  of  forgotten  men, 

Have  melted  noiselessly, 
Like  snowdrops  in  the  sea. 

The  song  that  poet  sung 
Yet  lives  in  many  a  tongue. 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  61 

The  warrior's  carven  form 
Still  seems  alert  and  warm. 

Men  thrill  with  pride  to-day, 
Seeing  that  painted  fray. 

But,  ah  !  from  long  ago 
There  drifts  a  sound  of  woe,— 

A  weary,  sad  refrain, 
Making  all  glory  vain, — 

The  voice  of  her  who  said  : 
"But  he  is  dead,  is  dead  I" 


Court  Uour  tUtfe. 

0  MIDDLE-AGED  man,  Fve  a  word  with  you, 
As  you  sit  in  your  office  this  morn  : 
Has  the  worry  of  life,  with  its  folly  and  strife, 

Pierced  your  heart  like  a  festering  thorn  ? 
Does  the  touch  of  your  gold  feel  too  clammy  and  cold  ? 
Are  you  weary  of  flattery's  scorn  ? 

Alas  !  for  the  days  when  the  passions  of  youth 

Burn  low  in  the  desojate  heart ! 
When  the  laughter  and  tears  of  our  innocent  years 

Never  more  from  the  sympathies  start, 
And  the  hideous  mien  of  indulgence  is  seen 

'Neath  the  flattering  mantle  of  art ! 

Perhaps  you've  tried  friendship,  and  only  have  found 
Deception  and  selfishness  rife  ; 


62  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

Perhaps  you  have  poured  to  the  needy  your  hoard, 

To  be  pricked  by  ingratitude's 'knife; 
And  perhaps  you  have  been  through  the  whole  round  of 
sin  — 

Did  you  ever  try  courting  your  wife  ? 

No  ?    Then  take  my  advice  and  I  think  you  will  find 

'Tis  a  pleasure  as  charming  as  new. 
Follow  memory's  track  till  at  last  you  are  back 

To  the  days  when  you  swore  to  be  true  — 
Yea,  dream  more  and  more  till  she  seems,  as  of  yore, 

To  be  watchirig  and  sighing  for  you. 

And  when  you  go  home  to-night  buy  a  bouquet 

Of  the  flowers  she  used  to  admire  ; 
Put  them  into  her  hand,  when  before  her  you  stand, 

With  a  lover-like  kiss  of  desire, 
And,  oh !  watch  her  eyes  when  they  ope  with  surprise, 

And  flame  up  from  a  smoldering  fire  ! 

Then  all  the  long  evening  be  tender  and  kind, 

Hover  near  her  with  eager  delight ; 
Call  her  " Darling"  and  " Sweet,"  the  old  titles  repeat 

Till  her  face  is  with  happiness  bright  — 
Try  it,  world-wearied  man,  'tis  an  excellent  plan, 

Go  a-courting  your  dea^  wife  to-night ! 


Jir0t 


WHITE  as  the  sheet  is  her  delicate  face, 
Girlishly  sweet  'mid  the  linen  and  lace, 
Motherly  meet  with  its  new-gotten  grace. 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  63 

Go  not  away  till  she  opens  her  eyes  ; 

Deep  in  their  gray  lurks  a  wondrous  surprise, 

Bright  as  the  day  and  as  pure  as  the  skies ! 

Thrilling  her  breast  is  the  heart  of  all  love, 
Keen  as  the  zest  of  the  raptures  above, 
Tiger's  unrest  and  the  fear  of  the  dove. 

Bliss  that  was  bred  in  a  transport  of  pain, 

Suffering  fled  out  of  ecstasy's  reign  — 

Fled  now  and  dead,  though  it  lived  not  in  vain  ! 

This  is  a  bliss  that  no  words  can  express ; 
Joy  such  as  this  they  refuse  to  confess  : 
Thoughts  only  miss  when  we  deem  that  we  guess, 

Tuned  is  the  heart  of  the  mother  full  soon  ; 
Lullabies  start  there,  and  many  a  croon 
Sweeter  than  art  and  as  old  as  love's  boon. 

Love's  sea  is  filled  to  its  uttermost  deeps  ; 
If  it  is  stilled  how  enraptured  it  sleeps  ; 
If  it  is  thrilled  how  it  trembles  and  leaps ! 

Wonderful  power  round  humanity  cast ! 
All  in  an  hour,  and  the  old  life  is  past ; 
Womanhood's  flower  is  expanded  at  last ! 


o 


®l)e  ©Ur  Ccroe. 

(WOEDS  FOR  MUSIC.) 

H,  let  the  old  love  wake  again ; 
It  only  sleeping  lies ; 


64  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

Oh,  let  the  old  light  break  again 
From  out  your  dusky  eyes. 

Dear  Heart,  I've  wandered  lonely 

To  many  a  haven  fair, 
And  found  them  sunless  only 
Because  you  were  not  there. 

Oh,  let  us  haste  to  say  again 
Our  pledges  fond  and  low, 
And  let  us  feel  love's  day  again 
Within  our  bosoms  glow. 

Sweetheart,  do  you  not  feel  it, 

The  tenderness  of  youth  ? 
Your  eyes — your  eyes  reveal  it, 
And  they  are  God's  own  truth  ! 

Oh,  let  your  dear  head  rest  again 

Upon  my  heart  at  last, 
And  when  those  lips  I've  pressed  again 
One  kiss  will  mock  the  past. 

True  Heart,  your  graceful  lashes 

Are  wet,  but  not  with  pain, 
For  from  your  eyes  there  flashes 
Love's  sunlight  through  its  rain  ! 

Oh,  let  the  old  love  wake  again ; 

It  never  should  have  slept. 
Come,  let  my  glad  arms  take  again 
The  joy  they  should  have  kept. 
Fond  Heart,  no  more  of  weeping, 

No  more  the  past  recall, 
For  we  are  in  Love's  keeping, 
And  love  is  all  in  all ! 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  05 

^transformation. 

THERE  lived  a  simple  country  maid 
Years  and  years  ago ; 
In  summer  'mid  the  flowers  she  played, 

In  winter  'mid  the  snow, 
And  every  one  that  saw  her  said,  with  little  sigh  or  shake 

of  head : 
"How  homely  she  will  grow  I" 

I  saw  her  in  her  sweetest  'teen, 

As  shy  as  any  dove, 
And  in  her  eyes  a  tender  sheen 
Caught  from  the  light  above. 
"  This  little  maid  grows  fair,"  I  thought ;  "  I  know  what 

all  this  change  has  wrought — 
It  is  the  grace  of  love." 

A  year  sped  round,  and  I  once  more 

Within  her  presence  stood. 
Fairer  she  seemed  than  e'er  before, 

Stately  and  brave  and  good. 
And  when  I  looked  I  said,  "  I  know  that  grace  which 

now  hath  changed  you  so — 
The  grace  of  motherhood." 

When  next  I  saw  her,  at  the  change 

I  gazed  with  bated  breath. 
Her  face  was  white  and  rare  and  strange, 

Like  one's  who  slumbereth, 
Dreaming  of  things  unsaid,  unsung  as  yet  by  any  mortal 

tongue — 
That  was  the  grace  of  death  ! 


66  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


BLACK-EYED  Alice  was  so  stately, 
Of  such  queenly  presence  she, 
That  each  night  when  she  sedately 

G.ave  her  finger-tips  to  me, 
Chilled  by  such  a  haughty  bearing 
I  essayed  no  greater  daring. 

E'en  my  looks  I  long  dissembled, 
Fearing  that  too  bold  they  were, 

And  my  voice,  that  somehow  trembled 
As  I  parted  late  from  her, 

As  I  said  "  Good-night/'  and  after, 

Cursed  her  good-night's  careless  laughter. 

But,  alas  for  stately  Alice 

And  the  seeming  haughty  bearing, 
For  the  black  eyes'  tender  malice 

Stung  me  once  to  sudden  daring. 
Dear  black  eyes  !  that  then  belied  her, 

As  I  trembled  there  beside  her. 

Suddenly  her  bearing  altered, 
And  a  coyness  sweet  possessed  her, 

While  the  little  "No"  she  faltered, 
Conscious  of  my  wish  confessed  her. 

Ah,  that  "  No  ! "     Could  I  resist  her  ? 
When  she  faltered  "No  I"  I  kissed  her. 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  67 


of  Srue 

0  WEETHEAKT,  do  you  remember  how 
P     One  evening,  years  ago, 

I  held  you  where  I  found  you,  with  both  my  arms  around 

you, 

Close  to  my  heart  as  now, 
And  kissed  you,  dearest,  so,  and  so  ? 

The  golden  summer  sun  had  set, 

But  through  the  sifting  gray 
There  blushed  a  purple  glimmer  that  dimmer  grew  and 

dimmer, 

While  low  to  westward  fluttered  yet 
Torn  banners  of  the  fleeing  day. 

A  subtle  sadness  filled  the  hour, 

Or  so  it  seemed  to  me, 

Which  flitting  breezes  often  vainly  essayed  to  soften, 
With  scents  from  many  a  garden  flower, 

And  many  a  rifled  locust  tree. 

1  spoke  of  love  in  awkward  wise, 
And  waited  as  one  might 

To  hear  God's  answer  given  awarding  hell  or  heaven, 
And  you — you  said:  "Look  in  my  eyes." 
I  looked,  and  To  !  there  came  no  night. 

Dear  stars  of  love,  that  all  these  years 

Have  beamed  on  me  alone  ! 
Bright  suns,  that  cheer  me  whether  'tis  fair  or  cloudy 

weather, 

And  paint  with  rainbow  hues  our  tears ; 
Deep  wells  of  truth — look  up,  my  own  ! 


Songs  of  the  Heart. 


Jinplacc. 

YOU  may  talk  about  your  furnace  fires 
That  warm  your  city  homes, 
And  tell  me  how  the  heat  aspires, 

And  through  the  building  roams  ; 
'  Tis  handy,  III  admit,  to  push 

A  little  iron  wheel, 
And  let  the  ghost  of  summer  out 
Around  the  room  to  steal. 

But  oh,  Fd  love  to  see  once  more 

My  father's  big  fireplace ; 
To  hear  the  old  logs  sing  and  roar, 
And  watch  the  dodging  sparks  outpour 
And  up  the  chimney  chase ! 

Your  modern  grate's  a  nice  affair ; 

When  full  of  anthracite, 
It  lends  the  room  a  pleasant  air 

On  any  winters  night. 
The  glowing  coal's  a  flower-bed  — 

Lilies  and  crimson  pinks, 
And  'mong  them  many  an  elfin  eye 
Peeps  through,  and  winks  and  blinks. 
But  oh,  I  long  to  see  once  more 

My  father's  old  fireplace ; 
To  watch  the  shadows  flicker  o'er 
My  mother's  whitely  sanded  floor, 
And  round  the  ceiling  race  ! 

These  patent  parlor  stoves  are  fine, 
And  charm  away  the  chill, 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  69  _< 


With  windows  whence  the  light  may  shine 

The  room  with  cheer  to  fill. 
Some  people  love  to  boast  about 

Our  stylish  modern  ways, 
And  thank  the  Lord  who  cast  their  lines 
In  these  progressive  days  ; 
But  oh,  that  I  might  be  once  more 

Beside  the  old  fireplace  ! 
To  see  the  fleet-  winged  flames  upsoar 
And  watch  the  flashes  on  the  floor 
Entwine  and  interlace. 

Hearty  and  jovial  fires  were  those 

I  loved  so  when  a  boy. 
They  tinted  darkness  like  the  rose 

And  warmed  the  heart  with  joy  ; 
They  chuckled  in  an  undertone, 

They  cackled,  whistled,  laughed  ; 
They  burned  so  bright,  the  cares  of  life 
Flew  upward  in  the  draught  ! 
And  oh,  I'd  love  to  be  once  more 

Beside  the  old  fireplace  ; 
To  drowse  upon  the  sanded  floor 
And  find  my  mother  bending  o'er 
With  love-light  on  her  face. 


(Bnrl  ©raimatc. 


4  NGEL  in  a  robe  of  white, 
-£*-        Standing  there, 
With  a  kiss  of  yellow  light 
On  your  hair  : 


70  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


By  the  vermeil  of  your  cheek, 
By  your  eyes  that  more  than  speak, 
By  all  graces  shy  and  meek, 
You  are  fair ! 

You  have  learned  to  "parlez  vous," 

I  suppose, 
And  have  read  some  Latin,  too, 

Verse  and  prose ; 
You  have  wept  Francesca's  woe, 
Read  your  Emerson,  I  know, 
And  can  tell  us  where  the  Po 

Flowed  and  flows. 

You,  mayhap,  have  deeper  gone 

E'en  than  this, 
Though  I  would  not  wager  on 

What  you  wis. 

Yet,  perhaps,  your  books  among 
You  have  learned,  although  so  young, 
How  to  write  the  English  tongue  — 

Learned  miss  ! 

Bead  us  now  the  essay,  dear, 

Erudite ; 
We  will  listen,  never  fear, 

With  delight ; 

For  we  know  'twill  be  a  treat, 
Wisdom's  choicest,  richest  meat  — 
And  you  look  so  very  sweet 

All  in  white ! 

Take  your  parchment  with  the  rest ; 
School  is  out. 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  .  71 

Let  no  fear  disturb  your  breast, 

And  no  doubt. 

Whether  you  are  dull  or  wise, 
There  is  something  in  those  eyes 
Sure  all  critics  to  surprise 

And  to  rout. 

Beauty  no  diploma  needs, 

Earned  or  bought. 
Beauty  of  itself  succeeds, 

As  it  ought. 

'Tis  the  thing  we  all  adore, 
That  we  strive  for  more  and  more  —  - 
You  are  music,  art  and  lore, 

Heaven-wrought  ! 


a  Hose. 

(A  la  AUSTIN  DOBSON.) 

I  CAN  see  her  standing  yet, 
Dewy-eyed, 
As  she  stood  that  summer  morn 

At  my  side  ; 
It  is  not  so  long  ago 
That  I  parted  from  her  so  ; 
Yet  the  gulf  is  fixed,  I  know, 
Deep  and  wide. 

Down  the  garden  path  we  walked 

To  the  gate, 
And  I  begged  her,  "  Ah,  my  own, 

Name  the  date." 


72  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

But  she  answered  :  "No,  my  dear, 
'Tis  your  fickleness  I  fear  — 
I  will  try  you  for  a  year  — 
You  must  wait." 

Grief  was  on  my  features  then 

Written  plain, 
For  she  said  :  "  I'm.  sorry,  dear, 

For  your  pain. 
Take  this  little  rose,  I  pray  ; 
It  will  wither  in  a  day. 
But  my  love  for  you  for  aye 

Shall  remain." 

Love  is  sometimes  sweet  and  sure, 

I  suppose ; 
Who  would  not  have  faith  in  such 

Vows  as  those  ? 
But,  alas  !     Fm  forced  to  rue 
That  they  were  but  semi-true, 
For  her  love  has  withered  too, 

Like  the  rose. 

See,  I  let  it  flutter  thus 

To  my  feet. 
Ah,  'twas  summer  when  its  charms 

Were  complete. 
Save  it  not :  my  heart  is  set, 
For  'tis  wise  I  should  forget, 
And  its  perfume  lingers  yet, 

Faint  and  sweet. 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  73 


'31  (Hl)ristmas  (£ne  Sermon. 

CEASE,  little  one,  your  laughter, 
And  climb  upon  my  knee  ; 
Be  patient,  dear,  till  after 

You've  listened  well  to  me  ; 
For  now  a  tinge  of  sadness  should   mingle  with  the 

gladness 
Of  this  your  Christmas  glee. 

Our  hearth  is  gayly  roaring, 

Flame-elfs  dance  round  the  room  ; 
We  see  the  red  sparks  soaring, 

For  us  the  fire-flowers  bloom. 
So  bright  we  are,  and  cheerful,  we  think  not  of  the 

tearful, 
And  those  who  dwell  in  gloom. 

For  while  you  roam,  a-sleeping, 

In  dreamland^  fair  and  bright, 
A  thousand  children,  weeping, 
Will  dread  the  coming  light ; 

And  pain  will  leave  its  traces  on  many  tear- wet  faces 
Through  all  the  dreary  night. 

•> 
Then  in  your  prayers  remember 

The  dear  Christ  to  implore 
For  those  whom  this  December 

Brings  grief,  and  nothing  more. 
And,  oh  !  forget  not,  darling,  those  who  must  hear  the 

snarling, 
Gaunt  wolf  paw  at  the  door. 


74  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


Perhaps  —  who  knows? — the  pudgy, 

Quaint  driver  of  reindeer 
May  down  our  chimney  smudgy 

AVith  such  a  big  load  steer, 
That  you  may  have  the  pleasure  of  giving  from  your 

treasure 
Some  poor  child's  heart  to  cheer. 

This  time  should  never  find  us 

To  our  own  pleasure  wed  ; 
It  should  of  Christ  remind  us, 

AVhose  heart  for  others  bled  — 
Hang  up  your  little  stocking,  for   sleep  your   lids   is 

locking, 
And  run  away  to  bed  ! 


<5ranbmotl)nr. 

p  RANDMOTHER  sits  before  the  fire 
^J     Knitting  with  hands  that  never  tire ; 

Toiling  as  though,  in  sooth,  she  thought 
Mittens  and  socks  could  not  be  bought. 

A  quaint  old  dame  to  me  she  looks, 
Like  those  one  sees  in  children's  books : 

With  specs  on  nose,  with  wrinkled  face 
Framed  neatly  in  a  cap  of  lace, 

From  morn  till  night  she's  sitting  there 
Rocking  awa}T  in  her  rocking-chair. 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  75 

Grandmother's  room  and  treasures  are 
Seen  through  the  door  that's  half  ajar. 

We  leave  it  open  nights  to  keep 

Her  nice  and  warm  while  she's  asleep. 

A  ponderous  thing  her  bedstead  seems, 
Carven  of  solid  walnut  beams ; 

Children  mistake  it  in  the  dark 
(Or  say  they  do)  for  Noah's  ark  : 

Upon  it  rests  a  feather  bed, 
With  feather  pillows  at  the  head. 

A  wondrous  couch  !     And  every  whit 
Of  four  feet  six  to  top  of  it ; 

To  me  a  marvel  long  it's  been 
How  gran'ma  ever  scrambled  in. 

And  in  that  room  she  keeps  a  score 
Of  books  that  people  read  no  more. 

Of  these,  I  think,  she  loves  the  best 
That  dream  of  glory,  "Baxter's  Rest." 

And  next  —  old  people  are  so  queer  — 
She  holds  dull  Martin  Tupper  dear. 

Jane  Austen's  tales  she  keeps  there,  too, 
And  other  authors  not  a  few, 

But  little  suited  to  these  days 
Of  stilted  verse  and  foreign  craze. 


76  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


But  hold,  one  book  she  has  which  I 
Must  not  too  hastily  pass  by  : 

A  quaint  edition  of  God's  Word,, 
Adorned  with  pictures  most  absurd. 

Let  those  who  open  have  a  care  ! 
Old  Clutie  hides  in  ambush  there. 

His  form  the  front  fly-leaf  adorns, 
Authentic,  tricked  with  hoof  and  horns. 

His  garb  suggests  an  ancient  sport, 
Picked  from  the  last  King  George's  court ; 

And  such  you  might  imagine  him, 
But  for  his  tail  so  long  and  slim, 

That  makes^a  loop  or  two  before 
Its  barbed  end  rests  upon  the  floor. 

'Tis  many  a  year  now,  I  am  told, 
Since  gran'ma  read  this  Bible  old. 

Not  that  our  modern  ways  destroy 
At  all  her  faith  in  the  ' '  Old  Boy/' 

But,  as  she  puts  it,  with  a  smile, 
'  The  picture's  clothes  are  out  of  style." 

Speaking  of  smiles,  grandmother's  face 
Is  their  continual  dwelling-place. 

And  when  the  babe,  who  oft  overflows 
With  sayings  wiser  than  she  knows, 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  77 

Cries:  "Gran'ma  don't  look  cross  nor  sad, 
And  yet  she's  wrinkled  awful  bad," 

The  dear  old  soul  makes  answer  mild : 
"  My  wrinkles  come  from  smiling,  child." 

Much  more,  if  need  were,  I  could  tell 
Of  this  old  dame  we  love  so  well : 

For  instance,  there's  the  flower-spot 
Each  spring  returning  sees  her  plot. 

She  studies  o'er  it  hours  and  hours, 
But  always  picks  the  self -same  flowers  : 

Pansies  and  morning-glories  fine, 
Sunflowers,  like  sentries  in  a  line ; 

A  little  patch  of  four-o'clocks ; 
Some  ' '  hens  and  chickens  "  in  a  box. 

And  you'd  be  more  than  touched,  I  weet, 
To  hear  her  sing  low — low  and  sweet : 

"I'm -Sitting by  the  Stile,  Mary," 
Or  oftenest,  "  My  Ain  Country." 

But  if  you'd  Jike  to  see  and  know 
This  queer  old  lady  I  love  so, 

Come  to  my  house.     You'll  find  her  there 
Rocking  away  in  her  rocking-chair. 

But  don't  put  off  your  visit,  pray ; 
She  sometimes  hints  at  going  away. 


78  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


JFirst  0roeetl)eart0. 

ONE  song  for  the  first  sweethearts, 
Ah  me  ! 

For  the  loves  of  our  boyhood  days  ; 
Our  tender  regret  for  them  never  departs, 
Nor  fades  in  oblivion's  haze. 

One  song  for  the  sweet  little  girls, 

Ah  me  ! 

For  the  faces  all  lily  and  pink  ; 
For  the  dears  that  wore  pinafores,  ribbons  and  curls, 
Whom  we  loved  to  insanity's  brink. 

There  was  tenderness  free  from  guile, 

Ah  me ! 

And  the  faith  of  our  earliest  youth  ; 
When  the  buds  of  aifection  oped  first  at  a  smile, 
And  thrived  in  the  sunshine  of  truth. 

My  sweetheart  is  dead  years  and  years, 

Ah  me ! 

And  yours  to  another  is  wed  ; 

But  well  sigh  for  them  both,  and  we'll  mingle  our  tears, 
For  to  us  they  are  both  of  them  dead. 

If  they  were  our  wives,  do  you  think, 

Ah  me  ! 

They  would  still  be  the  girls  that  we  knew  ? 
Will  heart-freshness  outwear  the  lily  and  pink  ? 
Has  it  ever 'remained  a  life  through  ? 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  79 


For  if  such  a  thing  were  in  life, 

Ah  me! 

And  there  were  no  drifting  apart, 
Each  man  would  be  happy,  I  ween,  with  his  wife, 
His  dear  little  first  sweetheart. 


(OF  GETTYSBURG  FIELD.) 

~nRIEKDS  with  a  love  that  grows, 
J-      Friends  with  a  love  sublime, 
That  deeper,  broader  flows, 
And  flows  to  the  end  of  time. 

The  aim  of  war  is  peace." 
And  love  to  peace  belongs  ; 

Let  peevish  bickerings  cease ; 
The  brave  forget  their  wrongs  ! 

Where  once,  in  war's  eclipse, 
Cannon,  with  fevered  breath, 

With  hot  and  trembling  lips, 

Eoared  their  hoarse  threats  of  death, 

The  heroes  of  the  fray, 

The  men  who  shed  their  blood, 
Have  plighted  —  Blue  and  Gray  — 

Eternal  brotherhood  ; 

Have  laid  their  hatreds  there, 
Deep  as  the  buried  slain — - 


80  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


Shame  on  the  ghouls  that  dare 
To  dig  them  up  again  ! 

Have  found  forgotten  graves, 
With  sweet  flowers  overgrown — 

Why  search  where  green  grass  waves 
For  some  uncovered  bone  ? 

No  spot  upon  this  earth 

Has  seen  more  glorious  hate ; 

No  spot  has  greater  birth 
Of  love  made  consecrate. 

Oh,  that  some  prince  of  song, 
Some  wizard  of  men's  tears, 

Would  float  its  fame  along 
The  muddy  stream  of  years  ! 

Would  sing,  in  worthy  strain, 
How  the  mad  battle  surged 

When  Pickett  o'er  the  plain 
His  brave  Virginians  urged  — 

Earthquake  and  thunder  thrill, 
Lightning,  that  blazed  and  leapt, 

And  then,  from  hill  to  hill, 
The  living  cyclone  swept ; 

How  gallant  Armistead, 
With  cheeks  and  eyes  aflame, 

Rushed,  with  uncovered  head, 
Into  the  arms  of  Fame  ! 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  81 

How  Gushing,  pierced  to  death, 

Clung  to  his  cannon  hot, 
Shouting,  with  dying  breath  : 

"  Fll  give  them  one  more  shot." 

Splendid  they  were  as  foes, 

Heroes,  both  wrong  and  right ; 
Shame  on  the  one  that  throws 

Mud  at  their  flag  of  white ! 

Idle  are  words  of  hate, 

Useless  are  taunts  and  slurs ; 
The  chariot  wheels  of  Fate 

Will  crush  all  wayside  curs. 

Since  this  round  world  was  bowled, 
It  has  smooth  and  smoother  whirled  ; 

And  before  the  sun  grows  cold 
Love  will  have  warmed  the  world. 


Cast  Strau). 


I  DIDN'T  feel  so  very  old, 
When  nurse  come,  all  a-titter, 
An'  handed  me,  to  kiss  'n  hold, 

A  fuzzy,  squallin'  critter. 
The  first  time  one's  a  daddy,  he 
Somehow  don't  stop  to  figger  ; 
He  feels  ez  awkward's  he  can  be, 
An'  stouter,  better,  bigger  — 
But  not  so  very  old. 


82  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

I  didn't  feel  so  very  old 

"When  first  my  teeth  went  thumping 
Nor  when  the  dentist  took  a-hold 

An'  never  left  a  stump  in. 
False  ones  are  clumsy,  but  the}r'll  pass  ; 

Jest  do  a  little  grinning 
Standin'  before  the  lookin'-glass, 

And  you'll  appear  quite  winnin' — 
An'  not  so  very  old. 

I  didn't  feel  so  very  old, 

When  first  I  had  a  symptom 
Of  rheumatiz  each  spell  o'  cold  ; 

Of  course,  I  knew  I  limped  some, 
But  in  these  days  folks  live  so  fast, 

'Twixt  gold  and  pleasure-hunting 
Their  youthful  Bpryness  doesn't  last, 

An'  lots  of  folks  do  gruntin' 
Who  're  not  so  very  old. 

But  now  I'm  f eelin'  kind  o'  old  — 

Perhaps  I  hadn't  oughter, 
But  in  this  letter  I  am  told, 

"Your  daughter's  got  a  daughter." 
Oh  my,  how  swiftly,  one  by  one, 

The  years  sneak  'round  behind  us  ; 
We  only  think  how  fast  they  run 

When  Life  and  Death  remind  us  — 
Yes,  yes,  I'm  gittin'  old  ! 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  83 


Autumn 

IN  early  youth  I  loved  a  village  maid, 
And  lived  in  ecstasy  for  days  and  days. 
Her  dainty  feet  through  all  my  future  strayed  ; 
Her  bright  eyes  beamed  in  all  its  purple  haze. 

My  love  was  fierce  in  tenderness  and  joy  ; 

It  was  a  thing  divine,  and  thrilled  my  soul, 
Until  it  changed  me  from  a  foolish  boy 

To  one  who  deemed  the  world  in  his  control. 

Waking,  I  wandered  in  a  realm  of  dreams, 
And  builded  castles  by  a  distant  sea, 

Kissed  everywhere  by  mellow  glory  gleams  ; 

And  she  was  queen,  and  dwelt  with  love  and  me. 

Brief  was  the  fickle  summer  of  our  bliss, 
For  cruel  Fate  our  hearts  asunder  tore. 

One  autumn  eve  we  parted,  with  a  kiss, 
And  went  in  other  ways  forevermore. 

Ah  me  !  I  know  not  what  my  life  had  been, 

Lit  by  the  tender  lovelight  of  her  eyes. 
Perhaps  I  still,  as  then,  had  wandered  in 

The  outskirts  of  God's  blessed  paradise. 

> 

I  only  know  that  oft,  when  leaves  are  red, 
Vague  loneliness  comes  o'er  me  like  a  spell, 

And  then  I  see  her  stand,  with  drooping  head, 
And  hear  again  her  sweet  voice  say  "Farewell." 


84  Songs  of  tlie  Heart. 

®l)e  JfcgUctefo  ©rat*. 

ONE  evening,  after  Decoration  day, 
I  lingered  when  the  rest  had  gone  away, 
And  sadly  strolled  among  the  graves  alone, 
With  fresh-cut  flowers  by  loving  hands  bestrewn. 

How  many  thoughts  within  my  heart  awoke  ! 
Of  keenest  memories  the  roses  spoke ; 
The  lilies  breathed  of  peace  and  joy  above, 
And  every  tiny  blossom  whispered  "  Love." 

Then  suddenly  I  felt  around  me  there 
The  presence  of  the  dead,  benign  and  fair, 
And  in  my  heart  the  glad  conviction  grew 
That  all  our  earthly  love  they  saw  and  knew. 

I  turned  away  to  quit  the  holy  place, 
When,  lo  !  a  vision  of  angelic  grace, — 
A  beauteous  picture  ne'er  to  be  forgot, — 
Beamed  on  my  sight  and  held  me  to  the  spot. 

A  little  child  was  standing  by  a  grave ; 
Her  hair  fell  free  in  many  a  golden  wave, 
And  when  she  looked  I  saw  within  her  eyes 
Tears,  mixed  with  smiles,  like  rain  in  sunny  skies. 

"  Are  you  not  lost,  my  little  maid,"  I  said, 
"So  late  amid  the  dwellings- of  the  dead  ?" 

In  sweetest,  saddest  tones  she  answered  me  : 
"Here's  one  that  hasn't  any  folks,  you  see. 

"The  only  grave  that  every  one  passed  by, 
And  when  I  thought  of  it  it  made  me  cry. 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  85 

The  one  there  by  the  willow-tree  is  ours, 
Covered  so  thick  with  all  those  pretty  flowers. 

"My  Uncle  Frank's  —  he'll  never  care,  I  know, 
If  some  of  his  upon  this  one  I  throw. 
When  he  was  shot,  I've  heard  my  gran'pa  say, 
And  dying  on  the  field  of  battle  lay, 

"He  made  the  doctor  leave  him  where  he  fell 
And  take  some  other  man  who  might  get  well." 
She  ran,  and  soon  her  chubby  arms  were  filled 
With  flowers  that  on  the  friendless  mound  she  spilled. 

Her  mission  done,  the  little  maid  I  bore 
Safe  in  my  arms  back  to  her  mother's  door, 
Kissed  her  good-by,  and  thought  how  wondrous  fair 
The  Christ-love  mirrored  in  the  child-love  there. 

Oh,  those  neglected  graves !  weed-covered  mounds, 
Lone  slabs  and  trenches  on  old  battle-grounds. 
Let  us  remember  them  wherever  known, 
In  His  dear  name  that  loveth  all  His  own. 

21  toe  Storg. 

AS  just  at  eve,  long  years  ago, 
A  little  gir}  lay  dying, 
And  they  who  soon  would  miss  her  so 

Stood  by  her,  softly  crying. 
They  said,  ' '  She's  gone."    But  soon  her  eye 

Beckoned  her  father  near, 
And  when  he  bowed  his  head  more  nigh 
She  whispered  low,  with  latest  sigh  — 
"  Be  a  dood  man,  papa  dear." 


86  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

God  knows  :  perhaps  the  spotless  soul, 

Part  way  toward  glory  winging, 
Turned  earthward  from  its  heavenly  goal 

This  precious  message  bringing. 
Perhaps  so  tender  was  her  love 

For  those  remaining  here, 
It  brought  her,  like  a  blessed  dove, 
Back  with  these  words  of  peace  and  love- 

"  Be  a  dood  man,  papa  dear." 

A  change  came  o'er  the  father  then, 

Subduing  him  and  taming ; 
No  more  he  sought,  with  sinful  men, 

Resorts  of  vice  and  gaming. 
For  always,  after  that  sad  day, 

To  wicked  taunt  and  jeer 
He  answered  :     "  I'll  noj;  go  astray. 
I  hear  my  girl  in  heaven  say — 

'  Be  a  dood  man,  papa  dear.' ' 


BeMime. 

OUR  little  Lucy  was  a  tease, 
A  curly-headed  bother, 
And  yet  she  couldn't  help  but  please 

Kind-hearted  old  grandfather. 
He  shared  her  sorrow  and  her  play, 
And  was  her  faithful  slave  all  day, 
From  early  morn  till  bedtime. 

She  had  him  up  and  dressed  before 
The  humble  bees  were  humming, 


Songs  of  the  Heart  87 

And  kept  him  wide  awake  till  o'er 

The  lea  the  cows  were  coming. 
Such  walks  they  took  !  such  romps  they  had  ! 
That  little  rogue  was  never  glad 

When  darkness  came  and  bedtime. 

But  when  the  summer  twilight  fell 

On  wood  and  fragrant  meadow, 
And  sleepily  old  Blossom's  bell 

Clanged  in  the  purple  shadow, 
Grandfather'd  seek  his  big  arm-chair 
And  call  from  'neath  the  hopvines  there  : 
"Come  Lucy,  dear,  it's  bedtime." 

Into  his  lap  she'd  scramble  fast, 
And  there  with  sleep  would  wrestle, 

Until  the  curly  head  at  last 
Would  on  his  bosom  nestle. 

How  gently  have  I  seen  him  rise 

And  say,  with  love  in  voice  and  eyes, 
"Mamma,  it's  Lucy's  bedtime." 

One  night  he  called  her  not ;  but  still 

And  motionless  was  sitting, 
Though  cried  the  plaintive  whippo'will, 

And  bats  w^ent  dimly  flitting. 
But  when  the  red  moon  fired  the  dew, 
Across  the  lawn  to  him  she  flew 

With,  "  Grandpa,  why,  it's  bedtime.' 

Oh,  Youth  and  Age  !  Oh,  Death  and  Life  ! 

One  stopped  and  one  beginning ; 
This  side  and  that  of  all  the  strife, 


Songs  of  the  Heart. 


The  praying  and  the  sinning. 
Mother,  with  startled  cry,  draws  near, 
Then  murmurs,  half  in  awe,  half  fear : 
"  Ah,  yes,  my  child,  it's  bedtime." 

il1I)at  mill  l)e  ©roro  ? 

T  ANGUOROUS  croon  of  a  low  lullaby, 
-"     Hitherward  wafted  from  vine-hidden  door, 
Teach  me,  a  saddened  and  worn  passer  nigh, 
Some  of  your  wonderful  music  and  lore. 

Mother  is  cooing  her  baby  asleep  — 
Tenderly  cooing,  and  rocking  her  own. 

Bright  little  eyes,  how  they  twinkle  and  peep  ! 
Soft  is  the  ditty,  but  slumber  has  flown. 

"  Sleep,  my  precious  ;  sleep,  my  treasure  ; 

Father's  sailing  o'er  the  sea, 
Bringing  joy  that  has  no  measure  — 
Coming  home  to  you  and  me. 

"Sleep,  my  precious  ;  cease  from  crying  — 

He  will  kiss  his  baby  soon  ; 
For  I  see  his  white  sails  flying, 
Framed  all  in  a  silver  moon. 

"Sleep,  my  precious  ;  there's  a  trailing 

Path  of  glory  on  the  sea ; 
In  it  father's  safely  sailing  — 
Sailing  home  to  you  and  me." 

Faint  now  and  fainter  the  lullaby  song 

Grows,  with  its  burden  of  hope  and  of  faith  ; 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  89 

Doubt  overtakes  me,  and  follows  along, 
Whispers  and  leers  like  a  hideous  wraith. 

Mother  is  cuddling  her  baby  in  bed, 

Gazing  upon  him  with  love-hungry  eyes. 

What  will  he  grow  ?    Were  it  better,  instead, 
Mother  should  strangle  him  there  where  he  lies  ? 


WAR  has  no  heroes  :  madness  comes 
When  bugles  call,  sweet-voiced  and  clear, 
And  when  the  startled  warriors  hear 
The  sudden  roll  of  answering  drums. 

War  has  no  heroes  :  madness  grows 
When  steel  is  flashing  in  the  sun, 
And  when,  through  rising  dust-clouds  dun, 

The  battle  forms,  in  serried  rows. 

When  bullets  whistle  merry  strains, 
And  foamy  steeds  dash  riderless, 
Cowards  forget  themselves  and  press 

Into  the  fray  —  then  madness  reigns. 

Heroic  deeds  of  peace  sing  I, 

Noblest  and  grandest  of  all  time  ; 
Devotion  perfect,  faith  sublime, 

Courage  that  scorns  to  faint  or  fly. 

Yea,  bring  war's  vaunted  great  ones  forth, 
,    And  all  their  bloody  deeds  rehearse  ; 
In  pale-faced  nun  and  gentle  nurse 
I  see  a  loftier,  truer  worth. 


90  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


No  glory  clamor,  no  pretense 

Is  round  their  quiet  courage  flung 
Who  go  with  Christ-like  zeal  among 

The  flying  shafts  of  pestilence. 

They  die,  if  need  be  ;  not  with  shout 
Of  victory  with  latest  breath  : 
Pierced  by  the  poisoned  darts  of  Death, 

Their  lives  ooze  slowly,  sadly  out. 

Let  scornful  pessimist  be  dumb, 

For  now  I  know  the  earth  will  drift 
Through  gloom  of  ages  into  rift 

And  glow  of  fair  millennium. 

(fro  a  Pain  tUoman. 

A  BUBBLE  cast  upon  a  boundless  sea 
Of  rhyme ;  one  note  struck  from  a  tuneless  lyre, 
And  heeded  not  by  those  that  nearest  be  ; 

A  child's  song  uttered  in  a  mighty  choir ; 
This  verse  may  not  to  better  fate  aspire. 

Oh,  that  it  were  some  gift  to  offer  thee, 
Some  rare  stone's  heart,  aglow  with  priceless  fire, 
Potent  with  hidden  charms,  unknown  to  all  save  me. 

Such  gift  is  not  in  all  my  little  store ; 

The  eager,  nimble  fingers  of  Defeat 
Have  turned  too  oft  my  heap  of  treasures  o'er, 

And  culled  therefrom  all  worthy  things  and  meet. 
Oh,  that  I  might,  then,  in  this  lone  retreat, 

Enwrap  thy  name,  as  Laura's  erst  of  yore, 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  91 


In  quaint  thought-sheaflets,  keeping  green  and  sweet, 
When  I  have  silent  been,  long  since,  f orevermore. 

Beauty  is  vain  from  Flattery's  senseless  mead, 

In  all  remembered  and  forgotten  song, 
Since  love-lorn  shepherd  first  on  slender  reed 

Piped  madness  sweet  some  ancient  brook  along. 
Let  me,  presumptuous,  leave  this  servile  throng, 

Awhile,  at  least,  from  Beauty's  shackles  freed ; 
I  cast  them  from  me  once,  with  impulse  strong, 

And  lo,  no  bruise  was  left,  no  scar  to  smart  and  bleed. 

Fair  Cytherea, —  thou  whose  form  divine, 

A  splendid  flower,  unfolded  on  the  main  — 
Unfolded,  and  was  mirrored  in  the  brine,  — 

I  know  thee,  and  I  know  thy  fickle  reign ; 
Unseemly,  reckless,  have  been  all  thy  train, 

From  her  who  melted  jewels  in  her  wine 
Down  to  that  so-called  Lily,  soiled  and  vain  — 

Ah,  slandered  flower,  such  grace,  such  purity  is  thine  ! 

I  fancy  that  dear  Florence  Nightingale 

To  dying  eyes,  and  eyes  that  looked  despair — 
Although  her  cheeks  were  fever-sunk  and  pale  — 

Seemed  wondrous  sweet,  and  ravishingly  fair  ; 
And  thou,  my  own,  th^se  eyes,  in  joy  and  care, 

Have  found  thee  decked  with  graces  that  avail 
To  make  thy  presence  exquisite  and  rare  — 

Fragrant  from  hidden  sweets  that  Time  may  ne'er 
assail. 


92  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

©Rr  fttotljcr  ©0o0e. 

I  WILL  name  you  the  greatest  of  all  poetesses, 
And  you'll  own  that  I'm  right  when  I  do, 
Though  you  probably  couldn't  in  twenty-five  guesses 

Hit  her  name,  should  I  ask  it  of  you. 
Mrs.  Hemans  ?  or  Sappho  ?  or  sweet  'Liza  Cook  ? 

Mrs.  Browning  ?  the  Carys  ?    No  use ; 
It  is  strange  you're  so  dull  when  you've  all  seen  her 

book  — 
I  am  thinking  of  Old  Mother  Goose. 

But  should  you  dispute  me,  a  million  bright  pleaders 

Will  join,  I  am  sure,  on  my  side, 
And  we'll  claim  that  no  poet  has  more  loving  readers 

And  none  reputation  so  wide. 
How  the  little  ones  struggle,  when  sly  spider  Sleep 

Has  them  all  tangled  up,  to  get  loose  ! 
For  they  want,  just  as  long  as  their  pretty  eyes  peep, 

"One  more  story  from  Old  Mother  Goose." 

Of  her  poems,  how  many  are  great  masterpieces  ! 

Not  one,  but  a  dozen  at  least. 
There's  Old  Mother  Hubbard,  whose  trouble  increases ; 

Jack  Sprat  and  his  sensible  feast ; 
And  the  woman  who  ran  her  head  foolishly  through 

Matrimony's  untieable  noose, 
And  settled  for  life  in  that  wonderful  shoe  — 

They  are  all  there  in  Old  Mother  Goose. 

Then  her  fancy's  a  fountain  of  pleasure  unfailing, 

And  her  Pegasus  often  mounts  high ; 
In  the  case  of  the  witch  who  on  brooms  went  a-sailing 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  93 


She  takes  us  clear  up  to  the  sky. 
And  those  three  learned  men  who  a-cruising  would  go, 

And  thought  a  tub  fitted  their  use, 
Their  whole  trip  is  left  to  the  fancy,  you  know  — 

Such  a  shrewd  one  is  Old  Mother  Goose. 

Dear  poet  of  babyhood  !     Oft  in  the  city 

Your  verses  are  thought  of,  I  wean  ; 
When   the   care  -worried   merchant  hums   softly   some 
ditty, 

'Tis  his  mother's  face  rises  serene. 
How  pure  were  the  counsels  that  long  lost  one  gave  ! 

For  his  faults  he  can  find  no  excuse, 
When  he  visits  in  spirit  a  far-distant  grave, 

Led  thither  by  Old  Mother  Goose. 

Ah  me  !  whereas  the  hardened  and  worldly-wise  sinner 

(And  we  all  of  us  sin  less  or  more) 
Who'd  refuse  to  again  be  a  little  beginner, 

Learned  only  in  childhood's  sweet  lore  ? 
How  many  could  start  on  -a  far  better  way, 

Or  their  gifts  put  to  worthier  use, 
Could  they  find  themselves  back  in  that  innocent  day 

When  they  marveled  at  Old  Mother  Goose  ! 


of  fflaltfornia. 


COME,  sit  awhile  beneath  this  spreading  arbor 
Of  lusty  fig  and  intercreeping  vine  ; 
My  heart  no  other  guest  save  love  shall  harbor 
While  thou  art  mine  — 

Boy,  bring  wine, 


1)4  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


No  classic  maid  art  thou  —  just  modern  Alice  ; 

Yet  fair  enough  to  turn  despair  to  joy. 
Come  now,  charm  from  me,  with  your  black  eyes'  malice, 

The  world  and  care's  alloy  — 

That  wine,  boy. 

Fair  Lalage,  however  sweetly  smiling, 

Beamed  not  011  Horace  with  such  eyes  as  thine  ; 

Dark  Amaryllis  ne'er  was  so  beguiling, 
Nor  Hero  so  divine  — 

Drink,  drink  wine. 

Ah  !  what  is  this  ?    A  fleeting  cloud  of  sadness, 
That  love  their  hearts  may  never  more  annoy  ? 

Be  wise,  then,  girl,  and  seize  life's  transient  madness 
Ere  hungry  Time  destroy  — 

More  wine,  boy. 

Perhaps — who  knows  ?  —  when  we  are  dead,  and  scat- 
tered 

Through  earth  and  sea  and  heaven,  far  and  fine, 
Your  name,  like  those  of  others  wooed  and  flattered, 
May  live  in  some  sweet  line — 

Ah,  that  wine  ! 

But  now's  our  turn  for  love  and  laughter,  Alice  ; 

Be  coy,  I  pray  you  ;  but  be  not  too  coy. 
The  ages  offer  us  their  thrilling  chalice  — 

'Twill  shatter  ere  we  cloy  — 

More  wine,  boy. 

Dark   blood   peeps    through   your   smooth   skin's   lily 

whiteness, 
'Twixt  ruddy  lips  your  teeth  gleam,  all  a-line ; 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  95 


Sunshine  is  woven  in  your  brown  hair's  brightness. 
Ah,  which  is  hair  ?     Which  shine  ? 

Drink  more  wine. 

These  things  will  fade,  and  what  will  follow  after  ? 

Alas,  that  Fate  must  use  us  for  a  toy  ! 
But  now's  the  time  that  wine  and  love  and  laughter 

Should  all  our  thoughts  employ  — 

Bring  wine,  boy ! 


WITHIN  the  convent  grim  and  gray, 
And  ivy-grown, 

She  liveth  on,  from  day  to  day, 
Life's  monotone. 

She  leaveth  oft  the  ancient  pile 

And  passeth  by. 
Yet  I  have  never  seen  her  smile 

Nor  caught  her  eye. 

Her  hands  are  very  white  and  small, 

And  those  who  know 
Say  that  on  Fever's  brow  they  fall 

Like  flakes  of  snow. 

They  say  her  voice  is  soft  and  sweet 

In  Sorrow's  ear, 
Wooing  the  soul  to  Mary's  feet 

From  doubt  and  fear. 


96  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

Ah  me  !     And  yet  her  youthful  face, 

Clad  though  it  be 
In  cold  religion's  saintly  grace, 

Is  fair  to  see. 

Her  eyes,  so  modestly  cast  down, 

So  introspect, 
Could  light  a  smile  or  arm  a  frown 

With  dire  effect. 

'Tis  just  such  orbs  that  steadiest  burn 

With  passion's  lire ; 
Can  all  the  tears  in  Virtue's  urn 

Quite  quench  desire  ? 

Her  mouth  is  red,  and  shaped  for  bliss ; 

It  seems  a  loss 
That  it  should  only  kiss  and  kiss 

Her  rosary  cross. 

Oh,  Little  Nun  !     Thou  art  too  fair  ! 

It  had  sufficed 
If  one  less  sensuously  rare 

Had  wed  thy  Christ. 

The  devil  oft  in  form  of  saint 

Entraps  the  eyes ; 
Thou  art  a  soul  without  attaint 

In  devil's  guise  ! 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  97 

©roaring  Rercncilrir. 

WHEN  her  husband  first  departed 
Widow  Blacke  was  very  sad  ; 
You'd  have  thought  her  broken-hearted, 
Such  a  mournful  way  she  had. 

Oh,  the  sorrow  of  her  sighing  ! 
Oh,  how  wearily  she  smiled  ! 
People  thought :  "  With  grief  she's  dying, 
She  will  ne'er  grow  reconciled." 

Now,  if  you  will  closely  scan  her, 

You,  perhaps,  may  note  a  change  ; 
Something  in  her  dress  or  manner 
Out  of  sorrow's  widest  range. 

Widow  Blacke's  but  three  and  twenty — 

Why,  she's  nothing  but  a  child  ; 
One  year's  mourning  is  a  plenty. 
Is  she  growing  reconciled  ? 

Seems  to  me  the  ashy  whiteness 

On  her  cheek  is  giving  way 

To  a  hue  of  healthy  brightness, 

Waxing  deeper  day  by  day. 

Gossips  say,  and  it's  a  pity, 

That  her  cheeks  with  paint  are  piled ; 
Widow  Blacke  is  very  pretty  — 
Is  she  growing  reconciled  ? 

Near  the  grave  where  Blacke  reposes 

I  was  strolling  yesternight 
And  I  spied  a  bunch  of  roses 

Near  the  headstone — withered  quite. 


98  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

Roses  are  so  very  fleeting  ! 

So  are  griefs,  if  deep  or  mild, 
And  I  couldn't  help  repeating, 

"  Is  she  growing  reconciled  ?" 

Then  her  mourning,  I'm  not  sure 

"Whether  pride  or  grief  it  shows ; 
Mourning's  so  becoming  to  her, 
Such  a  foil  for  pink  and  rose  ! 

Who's  that  promenading  yonder  ? 

Widow  Blacke  and  Major  Wilde  ? 
No  !     It  is,  though,  for  a  wonder  : 
She  is  growing  reconciled. 

(Jlljansonette. 

YOUR  love  is  far  dearer,  Sweetheart, 
To  me  than  your  beauty  or  grace ; 
And  your  smiles  I  hold  nearer,  Sweetheart, 
Than  the  charms  of  your  wonderful  face. 

'Tis  your  kiss  that  entrances,  Sweetheart, 
Not  the  red  of  your  ravishing  lips; 

And  your  passionate  glances,  Sweetheart, 
Throw  the  light  of  your  eyes  in  eclipse. 

For  the  world  without  asking,  Sweetheart, 
Your  grace  and  your  beauty  may  see ; 

But  'tis  I  who  am  basking,  Sweetheart, 
In  your  love,  and  that's  only  for  me  ! 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  99 


HE  dreams  :  Her  head  upon  his  breast 
Lies  cozily  and  well  at  rest. 
He  feels  her  bosom's  fall  and  rise 
And  drinks  the  perfume  of  her  sighs. 

He  wakes :  Against  the  rattling  pane 
He  hears  the  wan  and  ghastly  rain — 
Ah  God  !  He  thinks  of  how  she  lies, 
And  shuts  no  more  his  tearless  eyes. 


Core's  (Dpportunttg. 

TWO  lovers  by  the  old  front  gate, 
So  young  and  all  alone  ! 
The  village  clock  tolls :  Late  !  Late  !  Late  ! 
Twelve  times  in  solemn  tone. 

"No!  No!" 
A  deep  voice  says  aloud, 

"  Sweetheart,  don't  go 
Till  the  moon  goes  under  a  cloud." 

The  Queen  of  Night  rides  high  in  space, 

Serenely  bright  and  fair ; 
Her  kisses  gild  the  young  swain's  face, 
The  maiden's  glossy  hair. 

'Tis  late, 

And  all  their  vows  are  vowed  : 
"Why  wait,  and  wait, 
Till  the  moon  goes  under  a  cloud  ? 


100  Songs  of  the  Heart. 


The  fair  girl's  dewy  lips  repeat : 
"Good  night  is  not  good-by." 
But  love  in  youth  is  very  sweet, 
And  village  maids  are  shy. 

Dear  one, 

With  head  so  sweetly  bowed  — 
Don't  run,  don't  run, 
Till  the  moon  goes  under  a  cloud. 


©Ur  Ulan  Sljurman. 

[Allen  G.  Thunnan  usually  addressed  Ms  wife  as  "  Sweetheart."] 

A  SONG  for  old  man  Thurman, 
And  sing  it  clear  and  strong. 
His  life  has  been  a  sermon, 

Now  let  it  be  a  song. 
And  this  shall  be  its  burthen, 

To  give  us  greatest  joy — 
He  calls  his  old  wife  "  Sweetheart," 
And  loves  her  like  a  boy. 

There  is  no  fairer  story 

In  all  our  nation's  life ; 
No  better,  purer  glory 

In  all  its  peace  and  strife. 
True  is  that  man,  and  steadfast, 

Fine  gold,  with  no  alloy, 
Who  calls  his  old  wife  "Sweetheart," 

And  loves  her  like  a  boy  ! 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  101 


Who  cares  for  his  position 

On  questions  of  the  day  ? 
He  has  a  higher  mission  — 

A  nobler  part  to  play  ! 
Smiling  and  patient  ever, 

Though  Age  and  Pain  annoy, 
He  calls  his  old  wife  * ( Sweetheart/' 

And  loves  her  like  a  boy ! 

A  fig  for  flowery  diction 

Or  specious  eloquence ! 
A  fig  for  all  the  fiction 

Of  wealth  and  vain  pretense  ! 
Here  is  a  man  whose  glory 

No  env}r  can  destroy — 
He  calls  his  old  wife  "Sweetheart," 

And  loves  her  like  a  boy  ! 

We  well  could  spare  the  splendor 

And  tinsel  of  these  days. 
Give  us  true  liearts  and  tender, 

And  plain,  old-fashioned  ways  ! 
Of  men  like  Allen  Thurman 

This  world  will  never  cloy, 
Who  calls  ]iis  old  wife  "Sweetheart," 

And  loves  her  like  a  boy  ! 


102  Songs  of  tlie  Heart. 


of 


DO  you  know  a  luscious  mouth, 
Honey  oozing  like  the  South  ? 
Lips  like  bashful  roses  red 
On  a  bed  of  lilies  wed  ? 

Do  not  think  about  it. 
Thinking  leads  to  mad  desire 
That  will  scorch  the  heart  like  fire  : 
If  a  sweet  mouth  haunts  you  still, 
Put  it  from  you  with  a  will. 

Never  think  about  it. 

Do  you  know  a  pair  of  eyes, 
Dreamy  soft  and  passion-wise  ? 
Or  mayhap  a  pair  you've  seen 
Of  serene  and  haughty  sheen. 

Do  not  think  about  'em. 
Liquid  eyes  are  like  a  pool 
Where  one  looks  and  sees  a  fool. 
Can  you  deem  that  such  are  kind 
If  they  kill  your  peace  of  mind  ? 

Never  think  about  'em. 

Do  you  know  a  downy  cheek, 
Peachy-plump  and  satin-sleek, 
Where,  when  laughter's  zephyrs  sweep, 
Dimples  deep  like  eddies  keep  ? 

Do  not  think  about  it. 
Dimples  come  and  dimples  go 
Where  the  roses  stain  the  snow, 
But  the  wound  that  did  the  harm 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  103 


E'en  outlives  the  fatal  charm. 
Never  think  about  it. 

Tis  a  rule  for  young  and  old, 
Good  to  keep  and  good  to  hold  : 
Woman's  charms  are  devil's  bait  — 
All  too  late  we  mourn  our  fate. 

Do  not  think  about  'em. 
Lily  hands  and  fairy  feet, 
Luscious  lips  and  glances  sweet  — 
Love's  a  chain,  and  these  are  links  ; 
He's  a  slave  who  looks  and  thinks. 

Never  think  about  'em. 


ALL  among  the  green  grass 
The  dandelions  grow ; 
Yellow  dandelions, 
Pretty  dandelions ! 
Let  the  babies  pick  them, 
Toddling  to  and  fro. 
When  I  hear  the  children 
Shouting  in  the  grass, 
When  I  see  a  dandelion, 
Though  but  one  it  be, 
All  my  days  of  manhood 
Like  a  vision  pass, 
And  my  baby  sweetheart 
Plays  again  with  me ! 


104  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

All  among  the  tall  grass 
The  dandelions  nod ; 
Yellow  dandelions, 
Stately  dandelions ! 
Let  the  children  pick  them, 
Eomping  on  the  sod ; 
Roses  of  the  poor  folk, 
Springing  everywhere. 
When  a  single  dandelion 
Now  I  chance  to  see, 
Comes  a  dream  of  boyhood, 
With  its  vision  fair, 
And  my  school-girl  sweetheart 
Laughs  and  kisses  me  ! 

All  among  the  lush  grass 
The  dandelions  sway ; 
Fluffy  dandelions, 
Ghosts  of  dandelions ! 
Let  the  summer  breezes 
Blow  them  all  away, 
Like  the  joys  that  scatter 
In  our  early  years. 
When  I  see  a  dandelion 
Ghost  upon  the  lea, 
All  my  past  arises, 
And  I  think,  with  tears, 
How  my  little  sweetheart 
Sleeps  and  dreams  of  me  ! 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  105 

Cast  Smeetljmrt. 

f\  RANTA'S  locks  are  white  as  snow, 
^J    Those  he  still  possesses, 
Ghosts  of  curls  of  long  ago, 
Wraiths  of  boyhood's  tresses. 
Wrinkles  o'er  his  features  thin 

Zigzag  without  pity, 
Like  the  streets  and  alleys  in 
Famous  Boston  city. 

Time  has  bent  his  form  with  years, 

And  his  legs  are  thinner 
And  less  comely  than  the  shears 
Used  by  any  tinner. 

Lusty  was  he  once  and  gay, 
Full  of  manhood's  graces ; 
But  of  that  long  vanished  day 
There  are  now  few  traces. 

Yet  he  in  his  youthful  pride 

Pleased  the  fair  sex  greatly  ; 
Many  lassies  for  him  sighed, — 
Many  ladies  stately. 

Hearts  once  throbbed  and  ached  for  him ; 

Tears  wet  silken  lashes ; 
But  those  eyes  in  death  are  dim, 
And  those  hearts  are  ashes. 

Gran'pa  has  one  sweetheart  yet, 

Daintiest  of  creatures, 
Whose  two  eyes  of  deepest  jet 

Still  approve  his  features. 


106  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

Nellie  is  her  name,  you  see, 

And,  if  I  remember 
What  her  age  is,  she  was  three 

Some  time  last  December. 

Oft  her  hands,  so  chubby  fair, 

O'er  his  face  she  passes 
Tenderly,  and  with  great  care 
Not  to  touch  his  glasses. 

Oft  his  form  Fve  seen  her  scan, 
And  I've  caught  her  saying : 
"Gran'pa's  such  a  handsome  man/ 
Thus  her  love  betraying. 

CittU  Susie  fills. 

T  ITTLE  Susie  Lilly, 

*J     Strolling  down  Broadway, 

Wonders  at  the  windows 

Decked  for  Christmas  Day. 
Here  and  there  she  lingers, 

Dreaming  all  the  time 
What  she'd  buy  for  Christmas, 

If  she  had  a  dime. 

Little  Susie  Lilly 

Never  has  a  cent ; 
All  her  father's  money 

Goes  to  pay  the  rent ; 
All  her  mother's  earnings 

Go  for  beer  and  bread. 
Susie  thinks  a  girl  is 

Lucky  when  she's  fed. 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  107 

Little  Susie  Lilly, 

Strolling  down  the  street, 
Hasn't  decent  shoes  to 

Hide  her  chubby  feet  ; 
Hasn't  e'en  a  single 

Dress  that's  fit  to  wear, 
And  of  gloves  or  mittens 

Never  had  a  pair  ! 

Little  Susie  Lilly 

Is  so  poorly  clad, 
Don't  you  think  a  dress  would 

Make  her  very  glad  ? 
Don't  you  think  if  she  were 

Told  to  go  and  choose, 
She  would  pick  a  jacket 

Or  a  pair  of  shoes  ? 

Little  Susie  Lilly, 

Standing  in  the  snow, 
What  is  in  the  window 

That  has  charmed  you  so  ? 
Is  it  shoes  or  mittens  ? 

Is  it  cakes  or  pies  ? 
Bless  me,  it's  a  dolly 

That  can  wink  its  eyes  ! 


Sl)mg0  are  Best. 

OLD  things  are  best.     We  wander 
So  strangely  and  so  lonely 
From  here  to  that  world  yonder. 
Why  not  grow  fond  and  fonder 
In  tried  affections  only  ? 


108  Songs  of  the  Heart. 

Old  friends  are  best.     Their  faces 
Each  year  seem  dearer,  dearer, 
And  glow  with  new-found  graces ; 
Then,  ah  !     These  vacant  places 

But  bring  the  living  nearer. 

Old  homes  are  best.     The  laughter 
That  tells  of  childhood's  pleasures 
Beneath  the  ancient  rafter, 
Surpasses  all  that's  after, 

And  all  of  manhood's  treasures. 

Old  love  is  best.     Its  sweetness 
Makes  pleasant  Sorrow's  chalice  ; 
And,  spite  of  Time's  dread  fleetness, 
It  gains  in  calm  completeness 

And  laughs  at  Age's  malice. 

Old  faith  is  best :  the  teaching 
Of  heart-enshrined  mothers. 
What  profits  subtle  preaching, 
Or  blind  and  eager  reaching 

For  doubt  that  mocks  and  smothers  ? 

Old  ways  are  best :  the  gladness 
Of  simpler  lives  and  fitter, 
Ere  wealth  had  come  with  madness, 
Or  folly  left  its  sadness, 

And  sin  its  lessons  bitter. 

Old  things  are  best.     The  glimmer 
Of  age  forbids  new  choices. 
Oh,  as  mine  eyes  grow  dimmer, 
Faintly  across  the  shimmer 

Waft  me  the  old,  sweet  voices  ! 


Songs  of  the  Heart.  109 


21  Cetter  from  Ireland. 

I'VE  a  letter  from  Erin  this  bright  Christmas  day, 
Which  my  old  mother  sends  to  me  over  the  sea ; 
9  Tis  a  message  of  love  from  the  friends  far  away, 

A  gift  of  all  others  most  welcome  to  me. 
Wonder  not  at  my  tears,  for  these  pages  were  penned 

In  the  cot  where,  a  baby,  I  rolled  on  the  floor, 
And  what  dearer  token  than  this  could  she  send  — 
This  sprig  of  green  shamrock  from  old  Erin's  shore? 

"Merry  Christmas/'  she  writes,  "to  the  boy  of  my 
pride, 

And  I  hope  this  will  reach  him  at  no  other  time. 
Oh,  the  oceans  are  deep  and  the  oceans  are  wide, 

And  the  mountains  between  us  are  rugged  to  climb, 
But  a  mother's  affection  is  wide  as  the  earth, 

And  lasts  till  the  heart  that  it  thrills  is  no  more  ; 
So  I  send  you  my  love  from  the  home  of  your  birth 

And  a  sprig  of  green  shamrock  from  old  Erin's 
shore." 

Dear  old  Irish  mother,  so  tender  and  kind  ! 

I'll  be  true  to  my  God,  to  myself  and  to  you. 
And  what  lack  of  manhood  or  grace  can  you  find 

When  a  boy  to  his  mother  is  faithful  and  true? 
Yes,  I'll  wear  in  my  bosom  this  letter  of  mine  ; 

I  will  treasure  this  gift  from  the  land  I  adore, 
For  the  heart  of  a  mother  is  love's  purest  shrine, 

And  the  shamrock  grows  fairest  in  Erin  Asthore! 


of 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUL. 


Stye  2lgn00ttc'0  draft. 

FROM  whence  I  come,  or  whither  go, 
My  creed  is  this  :  I  do  not  know. 
Into  this  creed  all  others  flow. 

I  am  a  flickering  spark  of  mind; 
Vast  darkness  is  before,  behind — 
Darkness  to  me,  for  I  am  blind. 

Lo,  in  a  blade  of  grass  there  dwell 
Dread  mysteries  I  cannot  spell, 
Higher  than  heaven,  deeper  than  hell. 

Things  were,  and  are,  and  are  to  be ; 

I  peer  not  into  mystery, 

And  cry,  made  bold  through  fear,  "I  see." 

Things  were,  and  are,  and  go  their  way, 
Whether  they  govern  or  obey ; 
With  them  I  go  and  cannot  stray. 

•> 

'I  do  not  know."    All  thought  sublime, 
All  prophesies  of  former  time, 
But  hide  this  pearl  in  seas  of  slime. 

And  I,  who  neither  fear  nor  trust, 
Holding  this  creed  because  I  must, 
Shall  not  be  mocked,  alive  or  dust. 

(113) 


114  Songs  of  the  Soul 


Immortality. 

WHATE'ER  begins  must  end.     So  say 
Philosophers  both  old  and  new  ; 
And  nature's  round — birth,  fruit,  decay  - 
Doth  prove  the  adage  true. 

Snug  in  the  unripe  acorn's  coat 
A  fallen  oak  tree  slumbereth ; 

The  new-born  infant's  lusty  throat 
Must  rattle  soon  in  death. 

And  so,  whatever  hath  no  end 
Never  began  and  ne'er  was  born ; 

Its  origin  and  finish  blend 
As  night  fades  into  morn. 

Infinity  was  by  a  ring 

In  former  ages  signed  and  taught ; 
Surely  a  plain  and  simple  thing, 

Yet  food  for  grandest  thought. 

God  is  the  end  and  final  cause, 

The  Alpha  and  Omega  He, 
Before  beginnings/  more  than  laws, 

He  was  and  is  to  be. 

And  if  our  souls  are  plumed  to  flit 
Through  being's  circle,  near  and  far, 

They  lived  before  the  sun  was  lit 
Or  heaven  had  a  star. 

Oh,  listen,  Brothers,  listen  well ! 
It  were  a  cheerful  thing  to  hear 


Songs  of  the  Soul  115 


An  angel  harp  or  shriek  from  hell 
To  rid  us  from  this  fear. 

For  we  are  brutes  or  prisoned  gods ; 

And  there  is  none  of  us  can  guess 
What  life  we  passed  before  these  clods, 

This  vile  forgetfulness. 


tl)e  aijree  Still  i)oue0. 


ff 


EGO. 

'OW  lie  the  dead  below  ? 

Above  them  grasses  grow ; 
Willow  and  cypress  weep  along  their  streets ; 
Patient,  within  each  tomb, 
Vainly  they  wait  for  doom  ; 
It  glads  not  them  if  time  or  creeps  or  fleets. 

They  neither  sleep  nor  dream ; 

They  neither  are  nor  seem  ; 
They  are  not  now,  and  yet  forevermore. 

Our  minds,  like  rats  or  moles, 

Can  dig  into  their  holes, 
And  watch  them  lose  the  likeness  which  they  bore. 

On  dewy  dawns  of  spring 

Glad  larks  above  them  sing  ; 
Long  summer  days  brood  o'er  them,  soft  and  kind ; 

In  every  winter  night 

Their  slabs  gleam  weird  and  white, 
And  snows  drift  round  them  on  the  drifting  wind. 


116  Songs  of  the  Soul 


Storms  come  with  phantom  hosts, 
Moaning  like  damned  ghosts — 

Like  ghosts  far  off  and  sad  with  all  despair ; 
And  fiends,  that  shriek  aloud, 
Rend  the  dead  winter's  shroud, 

And  flutter  it  in  wanton  frenzy  there. 

What  are  the  names  they  knew  ? 

Some  plainly  writ,  'tis  true  — 
Their  owners  died  at  such  a  recent  date. 

Old  Time  walks  here,  alone, 

And  rubs  them  from  each  stone, 
As  children  rub  the  letters  from  a  slate. 

And  what  is  fame  to  those 

O'er  whom  deep  Lethe  flows, 
Who  know  not  of  men's  curses  or  their  tears  ? 

Our  voices  fade  in  air; 

They  hear  not,  lying  there, 
The  thunder  of  the  treading  of  the  years. 

Armies  above  them  shout 

In  victory  or  rout ; 
Great  cannon  boom  and  shiver  overhead  ; 

Old  creeds  to  earth  are  hurled, 

Thrones  fall  and  shake  the  world  — 
All  this  the  dead  know  not,  for  they  are  dead. 

Be  wise,  Myself,  be  wise ; 

Live  life  then,  ere  it  flies  ; 
Oh,  be  not  cheated  by  a  lying  creed  : 

Sate  well  each  eager  sense, 

Or  else  thou  wilt  go  hence, 
And,  having  died,  thou  wilt  be  dead  indeed. 


Songs  of  the  Soul  117 


ALTER   EGO. 

How  shall  a  man  shut  out 

His  foolish  hope,  his  doubt  ? 
Such  wondrous  overtones  about  him  ring. 
*  So  oft,  when  wine  is  best, 

There  comes  a  vague  unrest, 
A  chill,  as  though  from  unseen  angel  wing. 

Why  do  we  love  to  flee 

From  scenes  of  revelry 
Alone  to  wander  'neath  the  awful  stars  ? 

To  gaze  into  the  deeps 

Till  something  in  us  leaps 
And  fiercely  seems  to  shake  its  prison  bars  ? 

To  stand  upon  the  beach 

And  let  our  dim  eyes  reach 
Beyond  the  light-house  and  far  out  amain ; 

To  list  the  rhythmic  roar 

Of  waves  that  march  ashore, 
And  hear  them  chant  in  deep,  prophetic  strain  ? 

Who  knows  what  far,  fair  isles, 

Where  summer  dreams  and  smiles, 
What  slopes  they  saw  all  sweet  with  lotos'  blows  ? 

What  shores  of  peace  and  bliss 

They  fled  from  with  a-  kiss 
Before  they  hither  came — who  knows,  who  knows? 

And  if  old  Triton  rise, 
Dim  seen  where  sea-scud  flies, 
Floating  serene  through  foamy  trough  and  swell, 


118  Songs  of  the  Soul 


How  doth  it  lift  and  thrill 
To  hear  him  softly  shrill, 
Then  shriek  and  thunder  on  his  hollow  shell. 

Thus  stars  and  storms  and  seas 

Hint  at  great  mysteries, 
And  link  the  man  to  worthiness  and  power, 

Showing  the  simple  mind 

What  sages  often  find 
In  vernal  sprout  or  modest  hedgerow  flower. 

Ah  me,  in  wretched  way  ! 

Blind  at  the  full  of  day, 
Having  no  wings,  yet  sick  for  love  of  flight  ; 

Warmed  by  celestial  fire, 

Enwrapped  in  base  desire, 
Hoping  for  morn  and  cowering  in  the  night. 

JUSTICE. 

Delve  not  for  hidden  things  ; 
Drink  from  Truth's  wayside  springs, 
And  grovel  not  because  the  fleet  years  flee. 
Good  surely  is  man's-  best, 
For  this  must  be  God's  test  : 
"Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  strove  to  be." 


I  HOLD  with  those  philosophers  who  claim 
That  mind  is  all  in  all  ; 

'Tis  thought  that  feeds  the  sun's  undying  flame, 
And  shapes  this  earthly  ball. 


Songs  of  the  Soul.  119 


You  are  no  dwelling-place  of  flesh,  wherein 

There  hides  a  form  of  fear  ; 
Your  face  no  mask  is  for  a  face  whose  grin 

Mocks  ever  all  things  dear. 

You  think  you  live ;  but  soon  you  die  and  rot ; 

Your  features  tremble  to  a  blur, 
And  then,  anon,  your  very  name's  forgot, 

And  lo  !  you  never  were. 

We  live  two  lives  thus  :  one  in  which  there  beams 

By  turns  a  sun  and  moon ; 
The  other  while  we  range  the  realm  of  dreams, 

Wearing  its  magic  shoon. 

Wild  songs,  low  sobs,  faint  echoings  often  drift 

From  that  life  into  this, 
And  sometimes  greet  us,  peeping  through  a  rift, 

Faces  of  those  we  miss. 

But  who  our  unremembered  dreams  can  guess? 

Can  any  poet  tell 
What  poppied  meads  with  eager  feet  we  press, 

What  fields  of  asphodel  ? 

Nay,  this  our  madness,  that  we  think  is  life, 

Lasts  only  for  &  day, 
And  then  we  leave  its  folly  and  its  strife 

To  sleep  and  dream  for  aye. 


120  Songs  of  the  Soul 


©n  JinMng  a  Beautiful  fttotl). 

DOUBT  and  I,  one  summer  day, 
Through  green  wood  and  meadow  gay 
Chanced  in  random  mood  to  stray. 

God  was  in  the  brooding  air, 
Bound  about  us  everywhere, 
Thrilling,  shaping  all  things  fair. 

But  the  will  and  way  divine 
Were  too  subtile,  deep  and  fine 
For  those  careless  eyes  of  mine. 

Far  about  us  then,  as  still, 
Woven  threads  of  matchless  will, 
Twirled  the  stars  with  awful  skill. 

But  I  stood  owl-eyed  at  gaze, 
Blinded  by  the  noontide  blaze, 
Witless  of  the  stellar  maze. 

Marvel  not  to  hear  that  I 
Learned  of  matters  deep  and  high 
From  a  gorgeous  butterfly. 

Sure,"  I  said,  ' '  some  master  mind 
Such  a  dainty  shape  designed  — 
All  these  hues  arranged,  combined." 

Doubt  was  silent.     "  Yes,"  I  said, 
'  Twas  an  artist's  hand  that  led 
These  fine  lines,  these  colors  spread. 


Songs  of  the  Soul  121 


"  He  was  one  that  dipped  his  brush 
In  the  dawntime's  virgin  blush, 
In  the  gray  of  twilight's  hush. 

"Here  are  tints  that  die  or  swoon, 
Gold  of  sun  and  gold  of  moon, 
White  of  winter,  green  of  June. 

"  This  symmetric,  dainty  thing, 
This  divine  imagining, 
Chance  ne'er  fashioned/'  —  Doubt  took  wing. 

So  it  ofttimes  haps,  I  wis, 

They  whose  eyes  the  great  sea  miss 

Hear  the  shoreward  breakers  hiss. 

God  has  writ  our  rightful  creed 
Both  for  wise  and  simple  need  ;  — 
Even  they  who  run  may  read. 


OUR  baby  boy  one  day 
Folded  his  violet  eyes, 
And  from  his  waxen  clay 
His  white  soul  flew  away 
To  far-off  Paradise. 

His  little  hands  so  fair 

"We  crossed  upon  his  breast, 
And  standing  by  him  there 
We  gave  him  to  the  care 

Of  One  who  doeth  best. 


122  Songs  of  the  Soul 


And  when  to  final  sleep 

We  laid  him  soft  and  low, 

We  could  not  help  but  heap 

Upon  him  lilies  deep 

And  roses  pure  as  snow. 

And  then,  with  courage  great, 
His  mother  faced  the  years  ; 

But  oft,  when  it  was  late, 

Among  his  toys  she  sate 

And  fondled  them  with  tears. 

But  now  another  child, 

With  wondrous  violet  eyes, 
Rests  on  her  hosom  mild, 
And  smiles  as  he  had  smiled, 
To-day  in  Paradise. 

And  something  seems  to  say 

To  her,  so  sad  before  : 
"The  soul  that  flew  away 
Is  back  again  to-day  ; 

Sweet  mother,  weep  no  more  !  " 


HIGHER  ! 
This  shall  my  watchword  be, 
And  this  one  thought  my  soul  inspire, 
For  I  am  keen  and  free. 

Higher  ! 

Yea,  even  in  defeat 
Hold  I  my  lofty  purpose  higher 
And  deem  it  still  more  sweet. 


Songs  of  the  Soul  123 


Higher  ! 

Though  Victory  should  smile 
And,  bringing  me  my  one  desire, 
Should  say  :  "  Rest  thee  awhile." 

Higher  ! 

This  be  my  shibboleth 
Of  those  few  friends  whom  I  require 
And  love  in  life  and  death. 

Higher  ! 

Up  to  that  frigid  height 
Where  clinging  needs  and  lusts  expire 
And  thought  flies  strong  and  light. 

Higher  ! 

God,  save  me  from  old  age, 
From  listlessness  and  eyes  that  tire 
Of  Thine  illumined  page  ! 

Higher  ! 

Oh,  let  this  spark  divine 
Leap  glittering  to  the  central  fire, 
The  all-pervading  shine. 


SPIDER, 
At  my  window  spinning, 
Weaving  circles  wider,  wider, 
From  the  deft  beginning  ; 

Running 

Rings  and  spokes,  until  you 
Build  your  silken  death-trap  cunning,  • 
Shall  I  catch  you  —  kill  you  ? 


124  Songs  of  the  Soul. 


Sprawling, 

Nimble,  shrewd  as  Circe  ; 
Death's  your  only  aim  and  calling. 
Why  should  you  have  mercy  ? 

Strike  thee  ? 
Not  for  rapine  willful. 
Man  himself  is  too  much  like  thee, 
Only  not  so  skillful. 

Rife  in 

Thee  lives  our  Creator. 
Thou'rt  a  shape  to  hold  a  life  in  — 
I  am  nothing  greater. 

©n  a  Cat 

PREPOSTEROUS  cat,  from  Egypt's  soil  arisen, 

Where  thou  hast  lain  beneath  the  sand  seas  flat, 
The  countless  years  had  power  thy  face  to  wizen, 
But  not  to  wreck,  for  thou  art  still  a  cat. 

I  will  not  point  at  thee  with  jesting  finger, 

Nor  pass  thee  by  as  though  unworthy  thought, 

For  there  is  much  in  thee  to  make  me  linger ; 

Those  sightless  eyes  are  with  high  meaning  fraught. 

'Tis  hard  indeed  for  modern  thought  or  notion 

To  move  along  on  ancient  Koptic  line, 
Or  hold,  by  any  sort  of  weird  devotion, 

Grimalkin  clothed  in  attributes  divine. 

We  upstarts  have  a  curious  way  of  linking 

Puss  with  old  dames  and  flights  upon  a  broom, 


Songs  of  the  Soul  125 


But  Egypt's  reverential  mode  of  thinking 
Ere  Homer's  day  ran  back  to  earlier  gloom. 

How  very  modern  is  our  prophet  Moses  ! 

Our  Christ  himself  but  theme  for  recent  talk, 
While  we  are  few  when  counted  with  the  noses 

That  owned  the  sway  of  Horus  and  of  hawk. 

Five  thousand  years  !    The  brain  grows  sick  and  dizzy. 

But  long  ere  then  Phtah  ruled  beside  the  Nile, 
And  swarming  millions,  brown  and  blithe  and  busy, 

Throve  in  the  dreamy  splendor  of  his  smile. 

Most  ancient  cat !   When  thou  were  swathed  and  twisted 
In  costly  shroud  and  laid  in  sacred  grave, 

Apis  and  Pharaoh  vainly  were  resisted, 
And  gentle  Isis  deigned  to  bless  and  save. 

Those  gods  are  dead,  and  faded  is  their  splendor ; 

Their  countless  years  are  but  a  day  that's  done, 
While  Bethlehem's  star,  with  radiance  pure  and  tender, 

Outshines  in  glory  Egypt's  fiercest  sun. 

The  granite  statue  of  sublime  Rameses 

On  Memphis  plain  stands  desolate  to-day, 
And  years  drift  by,  like  summer's  cloudy  fleeces, 

Forever  changing  and  the  same  for  aye. 

•% 

Broad  lotus  leaves  still  on  Nile's  bosom  quiver, 
Still  lives  the  Sphinx  in  many  a  Koptic  face, 

But  never  Pharaoh  drifts  across  the  river 
In  golden  boat  to  his  long  resting-place. 

0  wondrous  cat !     Time  leveled  many  a  city, 
Pantheons  fell,  great  nations  were  forgot, 


126  Songs  of  the  Soul. 


But  thou  wast  hid,  and  now,  in  scorn  and  pity, 
Comest  to  taunt  me  with  my  fleeting  lot. 

Out  of  my  sight !     I  will  no  more  abide  thee. 

Thy  weird  grotesqueness  makes  me  chill  and  faint ; 
Thou  art  too  hoar  ;  I  cannot  well  deride  thee, 

But  I  will  spurn  thee  ere  I  suffer  taint. 

Curse  on  those  old  Egyptians  and  their  science  ! 

Types  live,  and  change  doth  keep  this  old  world  sweet. 
We  pass  and  come  again  :  why  bid  defiance 

To  Nature,  and  be  spurned  beneath  her  feet  ? 

Voices  of  nature  join  in  ceaseless  paean  ! 

Death  is  but  change  and  joyful  motherhood ; 
And  through  the  chorus  whisper,  Galilean, 

"  Why  live  at  all  except  for  doing  good  ?" 

©I),  Ulo%rte00  filjUb! 

THIS  is  the  house ;  the  shutters 
Are  closed  as  ne'er  before, 
And  that  is  crape  which  flutters 

Beside  the  open  door. 
And  there,  within  the  garden 

Her  baby  boy  sits  piling 
A  heap  of  gathered  pebbles. 

Look,  friend,  the  babe  is  smiling — 
Oh,  motherless  child ! 

Nay,  call  him  not ;  hereafter 
His  grief  with  years  will  grow. 

Check  not  his  infant  laughter; 
He  is  too  young  to  know. 


Songs  of  the  Soul.  127 


Too  young,  or  smiles  he  wisely, 

Feeling  a  gentle  spirit, 
Whom  our  dim  eyes  can  see  not, 

Is  at  his  side  or  near  it  ? 

Oh,  motherless  child ! 

Come,  friend,  our  kindly  weeping 

Can  bring  them  no  relief; 
I  would  not  view  her  sleeping, 

JSTor  see  her  loved  one's  grief. 
I  fear  the  scene  would  haunt  me 

In  all  my  future  straying. 
The  white  form  in  the  parlor, 

The  little  boy  a-playing — 

Oh,  motherless  child ! 

But  why  is  death  intruding 

Upon  us  with  such  fear  ? 
Is  not  the  Christ-love  brooding 

Above,  and  watching  near  ? 
My  soul,  too  weak  and  simple 

To  cope  with  doubt  and  error, 
Hast  found  thyself  forsaken  ? 

Dost  cry  in  sudden  terror, 

Oh,  motherless  child  ? 


Centra  Br ifogman. 

WHAT  think  you  were  the  joys  of  that  freed  being 
When  first  there  broke  upon  her  new-oped  vision, 
With  purple  clouds  about  them  dimly  fleeing, 
The  far-off  turrets  of  her  home  elysian? 


128  Songs  of  the  Soul. 


When  first  she  heard,  distrait  with  bliss  and  wonder, 
The  music  of  the  spheres  about  her  ringing, 

Afar  and  near  their  golden  hum  and  thunder, 
And  all  the  morning  stars  together  singing  ? 

How  many  years  she  dwelt  in  prison,  waiting ! 

No  ray  of  sun  relieved  the  darkness  bitter, 
And  no  stray  bird  around  her  window  grating 

Flew  now  and  then  with  friendly  song  and  twitter. 

Her  prison  was  like  ours  —  a  little  dimmer  : 
We  stumble,  grope  and  listen ;  all  our  peering 

Is  by  chance  rays  and  through  a  sifting  glimmer  ; 
Confused  and  wrong  is  our  most  perfect  hearing. 

0,  Jailer  Death  !  thy  terrors  have  been  sounded 
Long  in  men's  hearts  and  much  in  song  and  story ; 

Yet,  since  we  are  by  light  and  love  surrounded, 
We  dread  thee  not.     Let  in  the  waiting  glory  ! 


Singing  all  tl)e  tUaj). 

IN  the  farmhouse  door  grandmother  stands 
With  lovelit  face  and  outstretched  hands, 
While  up  the  road  with  flying  feet 
Comes  little  Marjie,  flushed  and  sweet ; 
In  through  the  gate  she  trips  so  gay, 
Singing  all  the  way,  singing  all  the  way. 

' Gran'ma,"  she  cries,  "I  never  missed 
One  word  in  all  the  spelling  list. 
To-morrow  I'll  be  at  the  head, 


Songs  of  the  Soul.  129 


An'  teacher  praised  me  when  I  read  ; 
So  I  came  home  from  school  to-day 
Singing  all  the  way,  singing  all  the  way." 

Grandmother  kissed  the  little  one, 
Then  wistful  watched  the  sinking  sun, 
Where,  back  of  clouds  and  changing  skies, 
A  wondrous  city  seemed  to  rise. 
She's  always  glad,  that  woman  gray — 
Singing  all  the  way,  singing  all  the  way. 


"Stye  Imri0tble." 

red  men,  whom  we  so  despise, 
-     And  proudly  try  to  civilize, 
Are  wiser  in  some  ways  by  far 
Than  we  and  all  our  teachers  are. 

We  preach  the  after-life,  and  range 
Through  Nature's  round  of  ceaseless  change, 
And  search  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men, 
To  prove  that  we  shall  live  again. 

We  only  half  believe,  at  best ; 
Our  faith  stands  not  the  greatest  test : 
For  when  our  friends  depart  we  weep 
More  than  for  those  who  do  but  sleep. 

And  on  each  marble  slab  we  write 
Some  legend  of  the  spirit's  flight, 
Lest,  passing  by,  we  might  forget 
That  he  who  died  is  living  yet. 


130  Songs  of  the  Soul. 


The  Indian,  with  a  single  phrase, 
The  ghost  of  doubt  and  terror  lays, 
And  lifts  the  viewless  curtain  spread 
Between  us  and  the  so-called  dead. 

He  knows  no  "dead":  just  for  a  space 
His  friends  have  faded,  form  and  face. 
Through  Nature's  strong  and  subtle  spell 
They  have  become  "invisible." 

We  are  too  fine  and  wise.     We  need 
Much  less  of  logic  and  of  creed. 
Oh,  let  the  untaught  forest-child 
Teach  us  his  credence  undefiled  ! 

Let  us  no  longer  say  "  Our  Dead/' 
Nor  think  that  those  we  love  have  fled. 
They  are  "  Invisible,"  as  we 
Shall  close  our  eyes  some  day,  and  see. 


A  FTER  long  years  apart, 
-^    Two  old  friends  met  by  chance  ; 
Each  knew,  with  quickened  heart, 
The  other  at  a  glance. 

After  a  fleeting  day 

Two  souls  met,  face  to  face  ; 
Each  looked,  and,  muttering  "Nay  \" 

Fled  past  through  windless  space. 


Songs  of  tlie  Soul.  131 


Srinitg  (Jlljnrdj-garir. 

HHHERE  in  the  midst  of  the  city, 
J-     Bounded  by  turbulent  streets, 
Rivers  of  strife  and  of  passion, 
Lieth  the  acre  of  God. 

There  in  the  ocean  of  frenzy, 
Safe  from  the  wrath  of  its  waves, 
Quiet  for  years  and  forever 
Resteth  the  Island  of  Peace. 

Out  from  the  portals  of  heaven 
Shineth  a  beautiful  light, 
Gilding  its  mountains  with  splendor, 
Flooding  its  hollows  with  love. 

Gayly  the  slumberous  poppy 
Bloometh  o'er  valley  and  slope, 
And  by  each  dwelling-place  windeth 
Lethe,  soft-rippling  and  deep. 

God  save  the  soul  in  the  waters, 
Clinging  to  hope  like  a  spar, 
Longing  to  rest  on  the  island 
In  its  ineffable  hush  ! 

Once  on  a  magical  Sabbath, 
Wandering  there  in  the  morn, 
Learned  I  a  wonderful  lesson, 
Simple,  yet  greater  than  speech. 

There,  on  a  moss-covered  marble, 
Liveth  the  name  of  a  babe, 


132  .  Songs  of  the  Soul 


Laid  in  the  cradle  of  Nature 
Years  twice  a  hundred  ago. 

Grieve  for  it  not,  0  ye  mothers ! 
She  that  mourned  longest  is  dead ; 
Lives  that  are  ended  are  equal, 
All  of  them  equal  and  naught. 

Heartaches  and  sorrows  and  troubles, 
Are  they  not  weeds  of  a  day, 
Sown  in  the  dust  of  our  bodies, 
Having  no  roots  in  the  soul  ? 

This  was  the  question  I  pondered, 
When,  like  an  answer  from  God, 
Suddenly  thundered  above  me 
All  of  old  Trinity's  bells. 

Chant  yet  again,  brazen  singers  ! 
Chant  till  the  measureless  sky, 
Yea,  and  the  dust  of  the  church-yard 
Tremble  to  glorious  chimes. 


MOODS  INDUCED  BY  A  CALIFORNIA  RAINSTORM. 


Congtng  for  Ham. 

FOR  weary  months  the  earth  has  waited,  longing, 
Till  waiting  grows  almost  a  steady  pain, 
And  memories  to  the  thirsty  soul  come  thronging 
Of  eastern  fields  made  green  by  summer  rain. 


21  Hemtmscntce. 

OJOY  intense  !  of  scenting  and  of  feeling, 
With  panting  birds,  droop- winged  in  sultry  shade. 
A  sudden  freshness  on  the  senses  stealing, 
A  sweet  relief  the  quivering  air  invade. 

Falls  a  big  drop,  smooth  and  plump 
In  the  dust  with  sudden  "thump." 
Others  with  increasing  patter 
On  the  shingles  >rap  and  splatter. 

-  Plowboy,  whistling  at  the  plow ; 
Lover,  with  half -finished  vow ; 
Sage,  intent  on  mighty  theme ; 
Dreamer,  roaming  in  a  dream — 

Run  for  shelter 

Helter  skelter ! 

(135) 


136  Moods. 


Now  the  rain  is  pouring  down, 
Sparing  neither  sage  nor  clown. 

Now  the  air  is 

Full  of  fairies. 

Hear  the  still  increasing  rattle 

Of  the  lively  mimic  battle. 

To  and  fro  upon  the  roof 

Gallops  many  a  well-shod  hoof. 

As  the  noisy  fray  he  leaves 

How  each  fleeing  pigmy  grieves, 

In  the  bubble  and  the  gurgle  of  the  eaves  ! 

Hark  !  a  lively  snatch  is  chanted 

By  the  robbin,  no  whit  daunted. 

Ere  the  eaves  have  ceased  from  spouting 

You  may  hear  his  sweet,  wild  shouting ; 
You  may  often  hear  him  calling 
Even  while  the  rain  is  falling, 
Ringing  high  his  note  of  glee, 
Simple,  hearty,  clear  and  free : 

"  Sunshine  will  come  again 
When  the  rain  is  over  ; 

Honey  bees  will  hum  again 

In  the  wet,  red  clover ! " 

Ham  at  Cast. 

DOWN  rocky  chasm,  wide  and  deep, 
Whose  bed  was  dry  through  summer  days, 
With  many  a  run,  and  many  a  leap, 
A  noisy,  foam-flecked  brooklet  strays. 


Moods.  137 


Soon  will  a  river's  widening  floods, 
Mad  with  the  burst  of  long  pent  rains, 

Come  thundering  from  the  mountain  woods 
To  dash  in  fury  on  the  plains. 

Soon  will  the  hill-top  and  the  cloud 
Send  forth  their  cataracts  far  and  near, 

And  voice  of  many  waters  loud 
Will  all  the  caverned  summits  hear. 

Thus  oft  do  mountain  tribes,  grown  strong, 
With  hearts  too  big  for  bounds  of  yore, 

Down  all  the  rocky  passes  throng, 
And  on  the  frightened  valleys  pour. 

0  people  of  the  plains,  build  high, 

Build  strong  your  battlements,  build  tight, 

Before  the  angry  floods  come  nigh 
And  sack  your  city  in  the  night ! 


main  in  ttye  mountains. 

winter  where  Sierra's  peaks  gigantic 
Loom  in  eternal  phalanx  by  the  West, 
And  now  the  mist^in  folds  and  loopings  antic, 
Hangs  drapery  round  each  grim  and  ancient  crest. 

What  scenes  of  vastness  and  of  grandeur  varied, 
Impressive  sounds  and  overwhelming  sights, 

Dwell  round  these  cliffs,  rain-plowed  and  lightning- 
quarried, 
These  lonely  aisles  and  earth quake-builded  heights! 


13$  Moods. 


On  him  who  wanders  here,  with  what  intensity 
Do  feelings  of  man's  nothingness  intrude  ; 

How  is  he  swallowed  up  in  the  immensity 
Of  nature  in  her  wild  and  stormful  mood  ! 

Long  ere  the  Genoese  set  sail,  exploring, 
With  ships  inverted,  far  in  unknown  tides, 

Forgotten  men  have  yearly  heard  the  roaring 
Of  new-born  torrents  on  these  mountain-sides. 

These  stately  peaks,  unseen  of  eyes  Caucasian, 
From  time's  daybreak  have  reared  their  heads  on 
high; 

'Mid  shifting  years  of  untold  peace  and  passion, 
Have  watched  the  pigmy  ages  shrink  and  die. 

Grim  monuments  of  long  forgotten  races  ! 

Crush  not  my  spirit  'neath  your  piles  sublime ; 
Let  not  the  legend  on  your  battered  faces 

Too  much  oppress  the  fleeting  son  of  Time. 

0  man,  look  up,  and  tell  these  giants  hoary 
That  greatness  is  not  all  a  thing  of  size ; 

Thou  art  a  spark  of  that  Celestial  Glory 

Whose  wisdom  set  their  heads  among  the  skies. 

Ham  in  tl)e  ijeart 

NO  flashing  snows  and  crystal  air, 
That  send  the  warm  blood  dancing  free ; 
No  jingling  bells  and  mingled  glee, 
And  gay  steeds  dashing  here  and  there. 


Moods.  139 


But  days  of  damp  and  gloom  and  chill, 
Till  thought  dwells  only  on  such  theme 
As  faces  that  are  but  a  dream, 

And  voices  now  forever  still. 

From  o'er  the  blue  Sierra's  peaks, 

Across  the  great  plains,  wild  and  wide, 
Across  the  Mississippi's  tide, 

There  comes  a  voice  that  sadly  speaks. 

He  dwelt  within  my  soul,  and  read 
The  secrets  graven  on  my  heart ; 
Of  all  my  life  he  was  a  part, 

Yet  now,  afar,  he  lieth  dead . 

His  were  the  gifts  we  strive  to  share : 
Discretion  far  beyond  his  years ; 
Wit  that  would  flash  a  smile  through  tears, 

And  span  their  rainbow  on  despair. 

Some  things  I  never  knew.  God  grant 
He  called  that  priceless  gem  his  own, 
Without  possessing  which,  alone, 

All  other  things  are  utter  want. 

Again  I  see  those  college  days ; 
We  sit  in  some^  familiar  room, 
Whiling  away  the  coming  gloom, 

And  on  the  misty  future  gaze. 

Anon  the  lamp  shines  from  the  desk, 

When  from  the  well-filled  shelf  is  brought 
Some  legacy  of  ancient  thought, 

Dwelling  in  characters  grotesque. 


140  Moods. 


And  often,  when  the  path  was  blind, 
With  skillful  step  the  way  he  led, 
And  conjured  up  the  mighty  Dead, 

Communing  with  them,  mind  to  mind. 

These  things  belong  to  days  of  yore ; 
And  now  I  listen,  all  aghast, 
While  still  from  out  the  darkness  vast 

There  comes  a  voice  that  cries  :  "No  more." 

No  more ;  and  yet,  through  all  the  years, 
My  heart  shall  have  a  place  for  thee, 
Where  sweetest  flowers  of  Memory 

Shall  grow,  bedewed  bv  frequent  tears. 


ttJife. 

(A  poor  companion  for  the  rainy  season.) 

OLD  Solomon  hinted,  and  he  ought  to  know, 
That  a  woman  of  quarrelsome  mind, 
Like  the  dropping  one  hears  when  the  skies  overflow, 
Never  ceases,  no  matter  how  weary  you  grow, 
And  is  harder  to  squelch  than  the  wind. 

There  once  was  a  woman  who  talked,  talked,  talked, 

And  she  was  a  serious  ill ; 
For,  whether  she  rode  or  whether  she  walked, 
She  couldn't  be  stopped,  and  she  wouldn't  be  balked  ; 

She  really  never  was  still. 

At  morning,  at  noon,  and  all  through  the  day, 
She  kept  up  her  horrible  din ; 


Moods.  141 


She  chattered  and  scolded  and  gossiped  away, 
And  talked  even  when  she  had  nothing  to  say — 
But  that's  not  an  uncommon  sin. 

Her  husband,  of  all  men,  had  most  cause  to  weep 

(She  had  one,  Fm  sorry  to  tell), 
For  all  through  the  night  she  would  chattering  keep, 
Kind  angels  defend  us  !  she  talked  in  her  sleep, 

And  his  bed  was  a  foretaste  of  hell. 

But  all  earthly  doings  must  finally  cease ; 

Time's  prowess  were  vainly  denied ; 
So  this  woman's  tongue  did  at  last  find  release, 
For  she  lay  down  one  night  and  for  once  held  her  peace  — 

'Twas  the  night  that  she  lay  down  and  died. 

And  now  we  are  come  to  a  strange  anecdote, 

But  the  truth  must  be  told,  come  what  may ; 
She  chanced  to  be  talking  when  Death  seized  her  throat, 
And  though  she  ne'er  afterward  uttered  a  note, 
Her  jaw  still  kept  wagging  away. 

They  tied  close  her  mouth  with  a  napkin  and  strap, 

But  such  force  had  the  muscles  acquired 
That  her  jaws  flew  apart  with  a  forcible  snap, 
Then  together  again  like  the  jaws  of  a  trap, 
And  then  worked  as  though  ne'er  to  be  tired. 

Years  after,  three  doctors  this  strange  story  knew, 

And  agreed  that  the  bones  must  arise 
(A  decision  that  doctors  are  pained  to  come  to, 
But  if  their  devotion  to  science  is  true,     . 

Their  feelings  they  oft  sacrifice). 


142  Moods. 


So  they  called  upon  madam,  and  found  her  within, 

But  the  sight  brought  their  blood  to  a  chill, 
For  her  face  upward  leered  with  a  skeleton  grin, 
And,  most  horrid  of  all,  may  I  never  more  sin 
If  the  jaw  was  not  working  on  still  ! 

So  the  doctors  agreed,  and  I  think  were  not  wrong, 

As  soon  as  their  heads  became  level, 
That  the  will  of  a  woman  is  wonderful  strong, 
And  works  over  spaces  and  intervals  long, 

And  defies  even  Death  and  the  Devil  ! 


(How  rainy  days  might  be  pleasant.) 

CLING  closer  love,  and  press  your  dear, 
Soft  cheek  to  mine,  and  feel  no  fear, 
Though  ghostly  winds  without  complain, 
And  scared  drops  fly  against  the  pane; 
For  you  are  here  and  I  am  here, 

And  storms  will  vent  their  spite  in  vain, 
If  love  look  forth  in  sweet  disdain, 
And  thou,  within  the  firelight's  cheer, 
Cling  closer,  love. 

More  bitter  storms  of  grief  and  pain 

In  after  years  will  vex  us  twain. 
Ah,  then,  in  light  of  love  sincere, 
Come  near  my  sweet,  and  still  more  near 

Ever,  in  time  of  life's  dark  rain, 
Cling  closer,  love. 


Moods.  143 


fttcofo. 

pine  tree  at  my  window  drips 
J-   From  all  its  slender  finger  tips ; 
The  wild  wind  sobs  with,  pale,  thin  lips. 

What  awful  wailings  do  I  hear, 

Unutterably  faint  and  drear  ? 

Ah  me,  the  wind  tells  not  such  fear  ! 

Long  with  this  dreadful  thought  I've  striven : 

Is  not  my  heart  distraught  and  riven 

By  shrieks  of  souls,  fiend-scourged  and  driven  ? 

Can  I  not  see  their  robes  of  gray 
Trailing  athwart  the  somber  day, 
As  in  some  nightmare  by  Dore  ? 

Alas  !  why  will  that  laggard  stand, 
And  shake  the  sash  with  viewless  hand  ? 
Away  !  and  join  yon  fleeing  band. 

I  do  not  dare  mine  eyes  to  strain 
Lest  they  should  see  against  the  pane 

Some  ghastly  face,  bedrenched  with  rain. 

•* 

There  in  the  old  hearth  on  its  bed 
The  great  oak  log  is  lying  dead  : 
No  flame  elfs  dance  at  foot  or  head. 

I  am  alone  to-day,  alone ; 
Behind  lies  many  a  sad  milestone, 
And  many  a  sterile  field,  wind-sown. 


1-44  Moods. 


I  kissed  my  love  one  starry  dawn, 
And  turned  away  my  face,  pain-drawn, 
Knowing  she  could  not  follow  on. 

I  am  alone  to-day,"  I  said, 

For  love  and  grief  in  me  are  wed, 

And  she  —  she  is  not  even  dead." 

My  friend  said  :  "  Let  me  go  with  you; 
Tho'  woman  fail,  will  I  be  true." 
Alas  !  my  way  he  little  knew. 

And  thus,  unknown  of  all  mankind, 
With  thin,  wan  face  'gainst  rain  and  wind, 
I  go  right  on,  nor  look  behind. 

Hath  not  my  noviceship  sufficed  ? 
Ah,  I  have  suffered  like  the  Christ ! 
And  smiled  as  though  by  joy  enticed. 

Yea,  like  the  damned  have  I  despaired, 
And  none  have  asked  me  how  I  fared, 
Because  they  neither  knew  nor  cared. 

By  graves  of  mine  I've  stood  at  night, 
To  ponder  o'er  the  sleepers'  plight, 
While  winter  spread  their  couches  white. 

And  oft,  when  spring  her  revels  kept, 
Have  I  within  their  city  wept, 
Because  they,  only,  slept  and  slept. 

And  joy  has  seized  me,  such  as  fills 
The  robin's  heart,  and  overspills, 
Or  is  in  dancing  daffodils. 


Moods.  145 


And  I  have  lain  in  shady  swoon 
Throughout  a  summer's  afternoon, 
And  heard  the  turtle  coo  and  croon. 

Full  oft  a  million  honey  bees' 
^Eolian  harps  in  bloomy  trees 
Have  lulled  my  soul  to  sweetest  ease. 

Oft  have  I  strayed  on  wild  sea  strands 
To  watch  old  Neptune  wave  his  hands, 
And  hear  him  call  his  plumed  bands. 

Nature's  whole  diapase  I  know, 
From  fall  of  leaves  on  crusted  snow 
To  thunder  music,  high  or  low. 

Children  are  cherubs  in  my  eyes  ; 
Their  happy  voices  seem  to  rise 
From  out  a  long  lost  paradise. 

My  heart  bleeds  for  the  world's  forlorn, 
And  looketh  ever  toward  the  morn 
When  no  man  shall  his  brother  scorn. 

And  I  would  liefer  sing  one  song 
To  free  a  slave  or  right  a  wrong 
Than  be  chief  fool  to  fashion's  throng. 

Ah  !  what  is  this  ? '  The  fire  once  more 
Is  burning  with  a  merry  roar ; 
The  chill  is  gone,  the  gloom  is  o'er. 

And  see,  the  clouds  are  fleeing  far 

Before  the  sun's  keen  scimitar. 

How  bright  the  pine  tree's  jewels  are! 


146  Moods. 


Why  should  a  poet  thirst  for  praise  ? 
The  sun  shines  bright  on  cloudiest  days, 
The  linnet  sings  by  loneliest  ways. 


(Sudden  Sunshine.) 

TT7HEN  clouds  are  black,  and  rain  has  long  been 
chilling, 

The  sudden  sun  will  ofttimes  struggle  through, 
Anon  with  splendor  all  the  prospect  filling, 

From  jeweled  trees  to  skies  of  deepest  blue. 

When  lives  are  dark,  and  hope  has  ceased  beguiling, 
Some  unexpected  gleam  may  glad  the  sight, 

And  after  years,  in  fortune's  perfect  smiling, 
Be  filled  with  naught  save  honor,  love  and  light. 


FUGITIVE  VERSE. 


tDalt  tt1l)ttman. 

AN  old  man  once  saw  I, 
Bowed  low  was  he  with  time, 
Heart-frosted,  white  with  rime, 
Eeady  and  ripe  to  die. 

Upon  a  cliff  he  stood, 
Above  the  sea's  unrest ; 
His  beard  broke  on  his  breast 

In  venerable  flood. 

And  suddenly  there  came 
From  far,  with  airy  tread, 
A  maiden,  round  whose  head 

There  burned  a  wreath  of  flame. 

Ah  G-od,  but  she  was  fair ! 
To  look  were  to  disdain 
All  other  joy  and  pain, 

And  love  her  to  despair. 

"  I  come/'  she  cried,  in  tone 
Like  sweetest  siren  song  ; 
"  Though  I  have  tarried  long, 
I  come,  my  own  —  my  own ! 

(149) 


150  Fugitive  Verse. 


"See,  Love,  'tis  love  compels 
These  kisses,  priceless,  rare ; 
Come,  let  me  crown  thy  hair 
With  wreathed  immortelles." 

The  old  man  answered  her — 
His  voice  was  like  the  sea : 
"Comest  to  mock  at  me  ? 

Mine  eyes  are  all  ablur. 

"  Thou  art  too  late.     In  sooth, 
Naught  earthly  makes  me  glad. 
Where  wert  thou  in  my  mad, 
My  eager,  fiery  youth  ?  " 

"Nay,  grieve  not  thou/'  she  said, 
"  For  I  have  loved  full  oft, 
And  at  my  lovers  scoffed, 
Alive,  to  woo  them  dead." 

"  0  fiend,"  I  cried,  "  for  shame  ! " 
Yielding  to  wrath's  surprise. 
She  turned.     I  knew  the  eyes 
And  siren  face  of  Fame. 

flan. 

THAT  old  god  Pan, 
By  some  sweet  stream  that  ran, 
Through  dreamy  fields  Arcadian, 

Safe  hid  would  lie 

'Mongst  reeds  and  rushes  high, 

And  watch  the  flashing  waves  go  by. 


Fugitive  Verse.  151 


Often  he  made 

Soft  music  in  the  shade, 

And  all  things  listened  while  he  played. 

He  earliest  knew 

What  sound  souls  fair  and  true 

In  whispering  reeds  imprisoned  grew. 

'Twas  he  that  in 

Their  hollow  pipes  and  thin 

Found  all  of  nature's  dulcet  din. 

He  played ;  the  thrush, 
Hid  in  leaf -bower  lush, 
With  head  awry,  grew  mute  and  hush, 

And  honey  bees, 

Quiring  in  blossomed  trees, 

Would  cease  to  list  his  melodies. 

His  pipe  to  hear, 

The  timid  fawn  stole  near, 

And,  quite  entranced,  forgot  its  fear. 

And  many  a  face 

Of  nymph  and  woodland  grace 

Peeped  through  into  his  hiding-place. 

Bards  of  to-day, 

On  scrannel  pipes  that  play, 

Your  discords  fill  us  with  dismay. 

Oh,  that  some  man 

By  stream  Arcadian 

Might  find  the  Syrinx  of  old  Pan  ! 


152  Fugitive  Verse. 


flltisic. 

SNUGr  in  the  nest  the  young  bird  lies 
Until  its  wings  are  strong, 
And  then  it  cleaves  the  buoyant  skies, 
Bearing,  if  near  or  far  it  flies, 
A  message  and  a  song. 

So  fledging  thoughts,  unfinished  things, 

Nest  in  the  poet's  head ; 
But  Music  trains  their  sprouting  wings 
Till  from  the  poet's  brain  each  springs, 

And  flies  when  he  is  dead  ! 


Eobert  Derrick. 

1591-1674. 

DELICIOUS  May  is  with  us  now, 
Bud  days,  and  days  of  tryst  and  vow ; 
And  is  not  this  the  time  of  times 
To  read  dear  Bobby  Herrick's  rhymes  ? 

Sweet  singer,  dumb  these  many  years, 
What  is  it  thus  thy  verse  endears  ? 
Each  spring  the  flowers  bloom  anew, 
Each  spring  thy  rhymes — they're  flowers  too. 

In  Devonshire's  fair  fields  of  green 
The  primrose  yet  is  thickly  seen, 
And  daffodils  still  haste  away 
As  soon,  alas !  as  in  thy  day. 


Fugitive  Verse.  153 


We  pass,  ere  noon,  and  are  forgot ; 
But  thy  sweet  voice,  why  heed  it  not, 
Allowing  us,  in  gentlest  rhyme, 
The  harmless  folly  of  our  time  ? 

Soon  must  all  things  that  glad  the  sight 
Be  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Ah !  happy  man,  who  chanced  to  say : 
"Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may." 

E'en  rare  Ben  Jonson's  fame  is  half 
Due  to  his  curious  epitaph ; 
But  thou  shalt  'scape  oblivion's  doom 
While  springs  shall  smile  and  flowers  bloom. 


ABOVE  the  quiet  village  street, 
Cool  willow  branches  wave  and  meet, 
And  locust  blossoms  fall  in  sweet 
Midsummer  snow  beneath  the  feet. 

Often  adown  the  dusty  way 
Sleek  cattle  indolently  stray ; 
And  groups  of  little  children  play 
In  sun  and  shadow  all  the  day. 

Sometimes  an  organ-grinder  brown 
Comes  with  his  wrinkled  simian  clown, 
And  sets  his  tuneful  burden  down 
Before  the  finest  house  in  town. 


154  Fugitive  Verse. 


Then  soon  a  merry  band  and  fair, 
Entranced,  applaud  each  hackneyed  air, 
Or  shout  at  Jocko's  antics  there, 
As  at  some  mime  of  genius  rare. 

And  I,  though  I  should  list  my  fill, 
To  some  old  maestro's  magic  skill, 
Could  never  feel  such  honest  thrill 
As  these  young  alchemists  of  ill. 

He  goes,  as  organ-grinders  do, 
To  play  elsewhere  his  tunes  anew ; 
The  laughter  of  that  merry  crew 
Dies  down  the  leafy  avenue. 

They  follow  him  in  Fairyland, 
A  region  where  all  winds  are  bland, 
Where  every  hour  is  pleasure  planned, 
And  wonders  lie  on  every  hand. 

Pied  Piper  of  our  village  street, 
Play  on,  thy  wheezy  tunes  repeat ! 
Once  more  to  think  such  music  sweet 
I'd  toss  a  fortune  at  thy  feet ! 

So  tDalt  ttU)itman. 

(On  receiving  his  book.) 

I  THANK  thee,  Good  Gray  Poet,  for  thy  book ; 
How  much  I  prize  it  thou  couldst  only  know 
By  knowing  all  the  love  I  feel  for  thee, 
And  this  is  partly  why :     The  land  is  full 
Of  wights  who  live  by  rhyme.     They  prate  of  art, 
And,  having  no  great  message  to  the  race, 


Fugitive  Verse.  155 


Fill  all  the  public  prints  with  pretty  verse. 

Mere  twittering  sparrows  they,  that  flit  around 

The  sacred  summit  of  old  Helicon. 

Sore  sick  of  these,  I  ope  thy  book,  and  lo  ! 

The  twitterings  cease  and  in  their  stead  I  hear 

The  voice  of  ancient  forests  and  the  seas, 

That  ((  first  and  last  confession  of  the  globe." 

Perhaps  with  thee  I  mourn  the  "  unnamed  dead," 

And  in  my  heart  set  up  a  monument 

To  all  the  heroes  that  have  fought  and  failed. 

And  ever  as  I  read,  hope  grows  in  me, 

Hope  like  a  bird  that  sings  as  cheerily 

Amid  a  dreary  waste  of  arctic  snows 

As  though  lush  summer  smiled  and  earth  were  gay. 

Full  oft  I  dream  of  mighty  destinies 

That  wait  our  country,  and  I  see  her  sons, 

Her  fierce  athletic  daughters  and  her  sons, 

The  matchless  hosts  of  perfect  years  to  be, 

Winning  great  victories  in  the  fields  of  peace. 

So  this  thy  book  is  such  -a  prize  to  me 

As  if  a  sailor,  far  inland,  should  find 

A  shell  within  whose  tinted  chambers  dwelt 

Old  Neptune's  grizzled  wraith.     What  joy  were  his 

To  put  its  cool  lips  to  his  ear  and  list 

The  crooning  moan  a\id  whistle  of  the  sea  ! 


of  %  Stag. 

A   STATELY  stag  comes  down  to  drink 
J^-    Beside  the  mountain  lakelet's  brink  ; 
Around  him,  towering  to  the  skies, 
The  brown  Sierras  sharply  rise. 


156  Fugitive  Verse. 


This  is  the  haunt  of  silence ;  here 

Dwells  loneliness  akin  to  fear  ; 

And  as  the  stag  with  agile  tread 

Crosses  that  ragged  lava  bed, 

The  careful  putting  of  his  feet 

But  makes  the  stillness  more  complete. 

What  means  this  utter  dearth  of  sounds  ? 

Are  these  the  happy  hunting  grounds  ? 

Now  gracefully  the  neck  of  him, 

So  beautiful,  so  sleek,  so  slim, 

Bends  bowlike,  till  at  last  he  sips 

The  crystal  tide  with  velvet  lips. 

One  moment,  and  the  spell  is  past ; 

His  an  tiered  head  on  high  is  cast ; 

His  thin,  red  nostrils  sniff  the  air, 

As  though  it  said  to  him  "Beware  I" 

A  moment  thus,  and  then  a  quick, 

A  nervous  sound,  a  warning  "click  I" — 

The  four  hard  hoofs  together  met 

Sharp  as  a  Spanish  castanet. 

Away  !  away  !  at  every  spring 

A  shower  of  pebbles  round  him  ring. 

He  falls,  rolls  over — now  again 

Is  rattling  down  the  rocky  glen. 

Gone  like  a  flash,  -and  silence  now 

Sifts  down  from  cliff  and  mountain  brow. 

The  silence  grows.     What  ailed  the  stag  ? 

No  grizzly  looms  against  yon  crag, 

Grim,  clumsy,  ponderous  and  gaunt ; 

This  is  no  mountain  lion's  haunt ; 

No  city  hunter  with  his  hound 

This  rocky  fastness  yet  has  found. 


Fugitive  Verse.  157 


Ah,  none  of  these  !  and  yet  the  deer 
Had  sudden  cause  for  direst  fear, 
For  yonder,  up  the  rough  ravine, 
A  runner  comes,  brown,  lithe  and  lean ; 
A  perfect  athlete — trained  as  one 
Who  in  Olympic  games  would  run. 
Stark  naked,  save  for  sandals  tied, 
Beneath  his  feet,  thin  strips  of  hide ; 
Unarmed,  save  that  his  fingers  clasp 
A  long,  keen  knife  in  bony  grasp. 
Gods,  what  a  runner  !     Deep  of  chest, 
And  all  his  muscles  at  their  best  — 
See  how  above  the  skin  they  rise, 
As  every  move  their  temper  tries ! 
How  free  his  action !     Slightly  bent, 
His  eyes  upon  the  ground  intent, 
He  moves  along  with  easy  swing, 
A  Mercury  who  needs  no  wing ; 
Yet,  not  too  fast,  but  more  as  one 
Who  wins  the  race  before  'tis  run. 
This  is  the  primal  hunter,  this 
The  man  whose  weapons  never  miss  — 
The  runner  of  New  Mexico, 
Cliff-dwelling  Candelario. 
His  half -starved  dog  before  him  goes, 
Leading  the  way  with  faithful  nose. 
The  stag  is  doomed,  for  never  back 
Turns  Candelario  from  the  track. 
All  day  through  canyon  dark  and  deep, 
Through  mountain  passes,  rugged,  steep, 
Up  walls  of  rock  more  wild  and  sheer 
Then  ever  clomb  Swiss  mountaineer, 


158  Fugitive  Verse. 


And  over  plains  of  scrub  mesquite 

He  follows  with  untiring  feet. 

He  sleeps  upon  the  trail  at  night 

And  starts  again  at  grayest  light. 

But  one  such  other  hunter's  name 

In  all  this  world  is  known  to  fame, 

Or  e'er  was  shaped  of  human  breath, 

And  such  a  one,  I  ween,  is  Death. 

He  follows  so  each  mortal  wight, 

So  camps  upon  the  trail  at  night, 

Sure  that  his  game,  if  slow  or  fast, 

Must  weary  of  the  flight  at  last. 

Three  days  are  gone  since  first  began 

That  race  between  the  deer  and  man, — 

A  noble  course,  and  nobly  run  ! 

The  better  animal  has  won. 

And  now  the  stag,  tired,  hungry,  weak, 

His  hair  no  longer  smooth  and  sleek, 

But  trickling  sweat  and  dusted  gray, 

Stands  gamely  waiting,  brought  to  bay. 

His  antlered  head  is  bended  low, 

And  near  the  ground  swings  to  and  fro ; 

His  eyes,  though  shot  with  streaks  of  gore, 

Blaze  fierce  defiance  all  the  more. 

Not  long  he  waits,  for  soon  there  glides 

Into  the  opening  where  he  bides 

A  naked  runner,  brown  and  lean, 

Clutching  a  knife,  long,  wicked,  keen. 

Then  each  the  other  quickly  spies, 

And  first  they  wage  a  war  of  eyes. 

The  hunter,  bending  at  the  hips, 

With  twitching  hands  and  parted  lips, 


Fugitive  Verse.  159 


Glides  watchfully  around  and  round 
The  stag  that  turns,  but  holds  his  ground, 
Disdaining  though  he  often  feels 
The  starved  cur  snapping  at  his  heels. 
Some  moments  thus,  and  then  at  last 
The  snarling  mongrel  seizes  fast 
Upon  the  deer's  hock ;  mad  with  pain, 
The  forest  monarch  leaps  in  vain  ; 
He  leaps,  he  stamps,  he  turns  his  head  — 
Swift  as  a  shaft  from  bowstring  sped 
The  sVarthy  hunter  forward  springs; 
His  left  hand  to  an  antler  clings, 
His  right  the  gleaming  weapon  wields. 
The  stag  sways  to  and  fro,  he  yields, 
He  slowly  sinks  to  earth,  his  gore 
Smokes  on  the  ground,  and  all  is  o'er ! 
And  all  is  o'er,  but  who  would  check 
The  Indian's  joy,  as  on  the  neck 
Kneeling,  he  swings  his  knife  on  high 
And  wakes  the  hills  with  one  wild  cry  ? 


THREE  poets  stood  before  the  king, 
Longing,  as  poets  do,  to  sing. 
The  first  in  clownish  garb  arrayed, 
With  jingling  bauble  ever  played  ; 
Over  his  perky  face  the  while 
Flitted  a  sneer  or  else  a  smile. 


160  Fugitive  Verse. 


Well-groomed  the  second  was,  and  neat, 

In  proper  dress  from  head  to  feet ; 

A  mirror  of  the  fashion  he, 

And  ruddy-cheeked,  and  fair  to  see. 

The  third  stood  near,  with  drooping  head 

Unkemmed  and  pale  as  are  the  dead. 

:(  0  king,  hear  me,"  the  first  one  cried : 
f'I  have  no  thought  on  earth  beside 

To  make  you  laugh,  forget  your  care. 

No  sacred  thing  my  song  shall  spare  ; 

Of  joy  or  grief  'tis  yours  to  quaff  ; 

Be  wise  with  me,  0  king,  and  laugh." 

And  thus  the  second  urged  his  claim  : 
"  Hear  me,  0  king,  for  I  can  frame 
Ballade,  rondeau,  and  villanelle  ; 
Sonnets  by  me  are  finished  well, 
And  I  can  deftly,  truly  play 
Upon  the  mocking  triolet. 

"More  tricks  I  know  of  phrase  and  word 
Than  ever  yet  by  man  was  heard  ; 
Strange  terms,  expressions  obsolete, 
Trip  through  my  lines  on  dainty  feet ; 
And  when  the  thought  seems  weak  and  poor, 
I  screen  it  with  a  phrase  obscure." 

Slowly  the  third  began  to  speak ; 
His  voice  at  first  was  low  and  weak, 
But  soon  his  words  rang  clearer,  higher, 
Until  his  wondrous  eyes  caught  fire  ; 
And  then  a  light  from  heaven  shed 
Sat  halowise  upon  his  head. 


Fugitive  Verse.  161 


No  leave  asked  lie  of  court  or  king  ; 
He  sang  as  those  who  die  or  sing  : 
A  strain  prophetic,  weird,  sublime  — 
The  voice  and  meaning  of  all  time. 
Khymester  and  clown  forgotten  lie  — 
The  poet's  song  shall  never  die. 


on  Jdtm. 


I  READ  a  brilliant  essay 
On  fame  the  other  day  ; 
The  scribe  attacked  the  subject 
In  a  most  decisive  way. 

She  said  (for  'twas  a  woman) 

That  glory  was  a  snare, 
An  ignis-fatuus  leading 

Through  deadly  swamps  of  care. 

She  likened  it  to  bubbles 
That  tempt  the  childish  eye, 

But  shatter  soon  as  captured, 
And  into  nothing  fly. 

The  love  of  praise,  she  added, 

Betokened  silly  pride, 
And  throve  in  natures  little 

And  impudent  beside. 

But  when  this  witty  woman 
Had  quite  demolished  fame, 

She  closed  her  brilliant  essay, 
And  —  signed  in  full  her  name  ! 


162  Fugitive  Verse. 


®t)e  Rt0I)t. 

AN  ancient  Rishi,  legends  say, 
A  Buddhist  of  an  early  day, 
His  pack  of  worldly  thoughts  laid  down 
And  hied  him  from  Benares  town. 

A  chosen  spot  at  length  he  found 
Where  naught  but  nature  stretched  around, 
Where  silence  reigned  supreme,  and  where 
Might  penetrate  no  earthly  care. 

Content  with  this,  the  Hindu  sate 
Him  on  the  earth  to  contemplate ; 
To  think  away,  as  Buddhists  do, 
All  passions  and  all  feelings  too. 

And  then,  that  nothing  might  surprise 
His  mind  through  medium  of  his  eyes, 
He  fixed  those  orbs  in  restful  pose 
Upon  the  apex  of  his  nose. 

How  long  he  sate  there  none  can  tell; 
But  that  he  contemplated  well 
From  minor  details  may  be  gleaned, 
Though  ages  since  have  intervened. 

For  instance,  over  him  a  bird 

Flew  all  unnoticed  and  unheard, 

Dropping  an  acorn  as  it  flew, 

Which  sprouted  as  he  mused,  and  grew, 

Until  his  straddled  legs  between 
There  stood  a  shrub  of  lusty  green, 


Fugitive  Verse.  163 


And  finally  about  his  head 

A  mighty  oak  its  branches  spread  ! 

Above  him  squirrels  reared  their  young, 
And  feathered  legions  loved  and  sung, 
While  all  around  him,  far  and  wide, 
Snakes  dug  their  holes  and  lived  and  died. 

Of  all  these  things,  immersed  in  thought, 
The  Rishi  knew  far  less  than  naught, 
Because  his  vision  never  rose 
Beyond  the  apex  of  his  nose  ! 

So,  wide  and  far  the  rumor  went, 
And  many  folk  in  wonderment 
Cried,  when  they  saw  that  face  of  his : 
"How  wise  a  man  the  Rishi  is  \" 

'Tis  but  a  legend,  I  confess, 

Exaggerated  more  or  less, 

And  yet  within  it  lurks  a  seed 

Of  truth,  which  all  may  see  who  read. 

Have  we  not  thinkers,  e'en  to-day, 
Pursuing  that  old  Rishi 's  way, 
Who,  deeply  learned  though  they  be, 
Beyond  their  noses  never  see  ? 

> 

Sunrise  on  Cake  JUicljigan. 

DIM  wastes  of  sea  to  north  and  south  and  west, 
Wind-wimpled  stretches,  steel-gray  ere  the  dawn 
Mingled  afar  with  misty,  dove-winged  skies 
That  brood  and  melt  and  mix  until  the  eye 
Knows  not  where  waters  end  or  skies  begin. 


164  Fugitive  Verse. 


But  in  the  east,  ah,  there  the  wonder  is ! 
High  up,  the  heavens  glimmer  and  grow  pale 
In  awe  prophetic  of  the  coming  king ; 
Beneath,  for  leagues  along  the  watery  rim, 
A  river  runs  in  color  like  rich  wine, 
As  though  the  secret  cellars  of  old  Spain 
Were  rifled,  and  a  million  vats  outpoured. 

Upon  its  farther  bank  a  forest  stands 

Distinct  and  dark  against  the  paling  sky. 

Cloud  trees  as  gloomy  as  that  fabled  wood 

Where  strayed  of  eld  the  dismal  Florentine. 

Deep  in  such  shady  sadness  one  might  deem 

Old  Saturn  hid,  downcast  and  desolate, 

Dreaming  of  vengeance  'gainst  the  traitor  gods. 

What  mighty  trunks  uplift  their  branches  there, 

Waving  a  night  before  the  gates  of  Morn  ! 

Great  oaks  and  elms,  dense-leaved  and  vine-o'ergrown, 

In  random  shapes  of  wildest  symmetry. 

Now  brighter  glows  the  sky  ;  the  river  runs 

A  flood  of  molten  sapphire  and  of  sard. 

Bright  patches  fleck  the  ghostly  wood,  where  flit 

Gay  butterflies,  those  living  leaves  that  fall 

And  flutter  from  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

The  river  turns  to  fire,  and  suddenly, 

From  trunk  to  top,  through  all  its  gloomy  deeps, 

The  forest  blazes  forth  and  burns  to  naught. 

And  lo,  as  new  as  on  the  primal  morn, 
The  golden  glory  of  the  King  of  Dawn  ! 


Fugitive  Verse.  165 


Improvisation. 

HIS  hand  the  master  swept  along 
The  mighty  organ's  ivory  keys, 
Waking  old  memories  of  song 
And  elfin  symphonies. 

And  as  he  played,  a  little  lute 
That  lay  unhonored  at  his  feet, 

Hearing  such  strains,  could  not  be  mute, 
But  thrilled  with  echoes  sweet. 

And  so,  my  well-beloved  lyre  ! 

If  in  these  dreamy  moods  of  mine 
I  strike  thee  not  with  godlike  ire 

And  ecstasy  divine, 

I'll  lay  thee  down :  perchance  some  time 
Un wooed  of  me,  thy  tuneful  strings 

May  tell  of  melodies  sublime 
In  truest  murmurings ! 


me\  Age,  life's  greatest  joy/' 
Cried  an  eager,  rosy  boy. 

Is  it  childhood's  want  of  care ; 
Boyhood's  dream's  and  visions  rare ; 

Youth's  first  sip  of  Passion's  wine ; 
Manhood's  stay  at  Wisdom's  shrine ; 


166  Fugitive  Verse. 


Or  the  calm  at  set  of  sun 

When  the  heart  repeats,  '  Well  done7  ?" 

:Ah,"  Age  answered,  "Not  in  these 
Life  its  sweetest  pleasure  sees ; 

But  in  memories  of  woe 

That  the  heart  no  more  can  know/'' 


Knee. 


IVE  up  your  rifles  !  "  Stern  and  clear 
Ring  out  the  words  upon  the  ear. 

Yet  none  of  all  that  motley  band 
Or  moves  an  eye  or  stirs  a  hand. 

In  silence  and  disdain  profound 

Gaze  those  grim  warriors  on  the  ground, 

Though  round  about  them  ringwise  runs 
A  glittering  wall  of  deadly  guns. 

What  ails  those  wild  and  savage  men 
Hemmed  there  like  cattle  in  a  pen  ? 

Black-haired,  high-cheeked  and  eagle-eyed, 
Have  they  no  fear,  no  hate,  no  pride  ? 

Ragged  they  are,  and  hunger  gnaws 
The  vitals  of  their  sullen  squaws. 

Give  up  your  rifles  !  "    Now  they  look 
Like  painted  Indians  in  a  book. 


Fugitive  Verse.  167 


Each  warrior's  arms  are  crossed,  and  rest, 
Beneath  his  blanket,  on  his  breast. 

They  make  no  sign,  yet  soaring  high 
Drifts  one  lone  buzzard  through  the  sky. 

Give  up  your  rifles  !  "    To  and  fro 
Those  gaunt  forms  sway  in  rhythm  slow. 

Listen  !    What  means  that  guttural  moan, 
That  weird,  unearthly  monotone  ? 

Enough  of  this  !  "    The  captain's  brow 

Grows  black.     "Forward  and  search  them  now." 

Down  drops  the  buzzard  in  the  blue  — 
Is  that  the  death  chant  of  the  Sioux  ? 

Quickly,  with  leveled  guns,  the  men 
Step  out,  the  ring  contracts,  and  then  — 

Red  devils,  desperate  and  rash, 
Fighting  in  ragged  fire,  and  crash 

Of  sudden  rifles,  sulphurous  air, 
And  lithe  fiends  leaping  everywhere  ! 

Here  shakes  the  dripping  tomahawk, 
There  falls  the  splintered  rifle-stock. 

And  yonder,  with  uplifted  knife, 

The  lean  squaw  writhes  amid  the  strife  ! 

And  all  is  over.     White  and  red 
Together  piled  lie  torn  and  dead. 


168  Fugitive  Verse. 


Now  rake  the  long  ravines  with  shot, 
And  riddle  every  hiding-spot ! 

Let  none  of  them  escape,  to  tell 
How  many  pale-faced  warriors  fell. 

'Tis  done,  'twas  done;  now  as  we  ought 
Let  us  remember  how  they  fought. 

Was  the  Old  Guard  at  Waterloo 

Less  desperate  than  those  filthy  Sioux  ? 

"  Yield  you,  brave  Frenchmen,"  was  the  cry  ; 
"  We  never  yield, "  they  said,  ' (  we  die  !  " 

Was  Ouster,  when  he  fought  that  day, 
More  daring  and  less  rash  than  they  ? 

Murderous  and  treacherous  at  best, 
But  no  slurs  'gainst  their  courage  rest. 

I  praise  them  not,  I  love  them  not; 
But  ere  their  prowess  be  forgot, 

And  ere  their  tribe  be  dead  and  dumb, 
Oh,  that  some  native  bard  would  come 

To  sing  in  weird  and  worthy  strain 
Those  warriors  of  wood  and  plain; 

To  weave  in  sad  and  moving  song 
The  story  of  their  hate  and  wrong  ! 

Perchance  some  sweeter  time  might  hear, 
And  blot  the  page  with  many  a  tear  ! 


Fugitive  Verse.  169 


€a0l)  Bell. 

FKOM  the  earliest  glimmer  of  day 
To  the  setting  of  every  sun, 
There's  a  chiming  of  bells  that  merrily  tells 
Of  shame  and  of  crime  begun. 

Ching ! 
Five  cents  for  a  glass  of  beer  ; 

Ching ! 

Ten  cents  for  a  whisky  straight. 
And  the  devil  stands  near  with  a  horrible  leer 
Like  the  wraith  of  a  hideous  fate. 

And  all  through  the  we'arisome  night, 
In  noisome  and  smoke-tainted  air, 
Men  are  mixing  their  brains  with  horrible  pains, 
And  branding  their  souls  with  despair. 

Ching ! 

Ten  cents  for  a  glass  of  rye  ; 
Ching  ! 

Fifteen  for  a  Bourbon  sour, 
While  little  babes  cry  because  hunger  is  nigh 
And  tortures  them  hour  after  hour. 

> 
Oh,  vain  for  the  church  bells  to  sound 

The  beautiful  praises  of  Christ. 
By  a  merrier  chime  ringing  all  of  the  time 
Are  the  souls  of  our  brothers  enticed. 

Ching ! 

Ten  cents  for  a  glass  of  wine ; 
Ching ! 


170  Fugitive  Verse. 


Fifteen  for  a  bumper  of  rum  ; 
While  the  desolate  pine  with  a  patience  divine, 
And  the  mourners  with  sorrow  are  dumb. 

Then  what  though  hard  times  be  abroad, 

And  the  gaunt  form  of  Famine  appear  ? 
There  is  gold  and  to  spare  to  buy  whisky  and  care, 

And  enough  to  buy  sorrow  and  beer. 

Ching  ! 

Ten  cents  for  insanity's  spell ; 
Ching ! 

Five  cents  for  a  bumper  of  woe  — 
'Tis  a  musical  knell  ringing  souls  down  to  hell, 

And  to  frenzy  and  shame  ere  they  go  ! 


SOMETS  AND  BALLADES. 


©n  drcmatton. 

IT  matters  little  to  the  winged  sprite 
That  flits  and  flits  the  clustered  stars  among, 
What  fate  befell  the  useless  vesture  flung 
So  sadly  earthward  at  the  time  of  flight. 
Eyes  dazzled  by  a  sudden  flood  of  light 
Cannot  look  into  darkness ;  hymns  are  sung 
In  vain  for  spirit  ears  on  which  has  rung 
God's  perfect  music  heard  at  last  aright. 
Yet  for  this  worn-out  garment  seems  more  fit 
Than  beak  of  Parsee  bird,  or  wormy  shroud, 
Or  grinning  ages  in  Egyptian  pit, 
A  chaunt  of  merry  fire  tongues,  singing  loud, 
While  deft  flame-fingers  shall  unravel  it, 
And  slim  wind-fingers  weave  it  into  cloud. 


<§elm  of 

FAINT  babbling  voices  murmur  of  thy  fame, 
Helen  of  Troy,  in  chambers  of  the  past ; 
To  us,  far  off,  come  clear  and  loud  at  last 
The  growing  echoes  of  thy  potent  name. 
Such  splendid  image  fancy  ne'er  can  frame ; 

173 


174  Sonnets  and  Ballades. 

The  form  divine  might  be  from  sculpture  guessed, 
But  who  may  know  what  soul  the  face  expressed  , 
Whose  eyes  dealt  madness  in  contagious  flame  ? 
Old  Homer  never,  with  free  stroke  and  bold, 
Made  vivid  painting  of  thee  for  our  ken. 
Of  Beauty's  prowess  'twas  he  ever  told  — 
Of  dreadful  wars,  and  hosts  of  maddened  men. 
Who  now  can  Beauty's  subtle  charms  unfold  ? 
The  wars  they  make  reveal  them  now  as  then. 


HEROIC  shadows  dimly  throng  the  past  ; 
We  hear  their  hollow  voices  from  afar. 
Some  stride  in  ringing  mail,  and  some  there  are 
With  graceful  togas  round  their  shoulders  cast  ; 
Scholars  we  see,  whose  eyes  have  pierced  the  vast  ; 
Seers  that  have  talked  with  sphinxes  in  their  time  ; 
And  bards  renowned,  upon  whose  brows  sublime 
Sit  laurel  wreaths  that  must  forever  last. 
But  who  is  he,  yon  shade  of  stately  mien, 
That,  giant-like,  in  such  a  throng  appears  ? 
We  know  and  love  thee,  Freedom's  greatest  son  ! 
A  happy  nation  keeps  thy  memory  green  ; 
For  thou  art  worthy  of  its  splendid  years, 
And  they  of  thee,  0  peerless  Washington  ! 

Ballate  of  an  Hnusual  (Brief. 

I  MET  Jones  on  the  street  t'other  day, 
And  his  face  was  as  long  as  King  Lear's  ; 
He  appeared  in  so  sorry  a  way 

That  he  greatly  excited  my  fears. 


Sonnets  and  Ballades.  175 

He'd  a  look  that  was  wild  as  a  deer's, 

So  I  asked  what  had  robbed  him  of  rest, 
And  he  answered  me,  almost  in  tears, 
"I've  a  million  I  cannot  invest." 

I  will  own  I  had  felt  rather  gay 

Till  this  sorrow  assaulted  my  ears, 
But  my  heart  is  not  marble  nor  clay, 

And  misfortune  makes  all  of  us  peers. 
'Tis  not  often  that  any  one  hears 

Of  such  trouble,  it  must  be  confessed, 
And  that  wail  I'll  remember  for  years  — 
"I've  a  million  I  cannot  invest." 

There  are  bards  whom  the  critics  all  flay, 
And  whose  verses  are  greeted  with  jeers ; 

There  are  husbands  whose  heads  have  turned  gray, 
For  the  tongues  of  their  wives  are  like  spears  ; 

There  are  fellows  with  blighted  careers. 
And  Death  has  robbed  many  a  nest ; 

But  why  speak  of  this  sorrow  with  sneers  — 
"  I've  a  million  I  cannot  invest  ?" 

ENVOY. 
'Tis  a  world  where  the  sky  seldom  clears ; 

Every  life  has  its  sorrow  at  best — 
That  of  Jones  in  this  sentence  appears  — 
"  I've  a  million  I  cannot  invest." 


'T 


of  J5ur0tetr  Bdirfi. 

IS  an  era  of  Science  and  Doubt ; 

Hand  in  hand,  strange  to  say,  they  appear, 


176  Sonnets  and  Ballades. 

And  how  oft  they  unfeelingly  rout 
The  beliefs  that  our  fathers  held  dear ! 

We  are  always  tormented  with  fear 

Lest  the  torchlight  of  rummaging  Truth 

May  consign  some  old  tale  we  revere 
To  the  fables  discarded  in  youth. 

For  example,  historians  scout 

And  reject,  with  unanimous  sneer, 
That  delightful  narration  about 

Captain  Smith  and  the  Princess'  tear. 
William  Tell  and  the  cap  on  a  spear 

They  declare  is  a  falsehood  uncouth ; 
And  these  legends  belong,  it  is  clear, 

To  the  fables  discarded  in  youth. 

Now  a  Frenchman  is  just  bringing  out 

Something  new  in  Maid  Joan's  career ; 
'Twill  not  do  his  researches  to  flout, 

For  his  reasons  are  cogent  and  clear. 
He  declares  that  she  lived  to  uprear 

A  small  army  of  offspring,  forsooth ! 
So  the  stake  we  must  add,  if  sincere, 

To  the  fables  discarded  in  youth. 

EKVOY. 

Ah,  my  friends,  we  are  certainly  here, 
And  we  trust  in  posterity's  ruth  ; 

But  our  deeds  'twill  consign,  with  a  jeer, 
To  the  fables  discarded  in  youth  ! 


Sonnets  and  Ballades.  177 


of  tlje  Cetter  H. 

I  AM  not  a  great  poet,  I  own; 
Nathless  my  own  praise  I  would  sing 
In  a  humble  and  delicate  tone, 

And  yet  with  a  confident  swing. 
Pray  spare  me  your  pitiless  fling, 

Nor  say  I  am  going  too  far. 
I  claim  but  this  one  little  thing. 

I  have  never  made  "a"  rhyme  with  "r." 

My  lines  are  with  nonsense  upblown 

Till  they  float  without  plumage  or  wing, 
And  they  drop  to  the  earth  like  a  stone 

When  transfixed  by  the  critical  sting. 
I  have  sung  on  the  beauties  of  spring, 

And  on  themes  which  most  readers  debar, 
But,  in  all  of  my  sad  maundering, 

I  have  never  made  "a"  rhyme  with  "r." 

'Tis  a  license  that  scribblers,  high  flown, 

Bostonese  into  usage  would  bring  ; 
But  it  merits  naught  else  save  a  groan, 

For  it  gives  to  their  work  a  false  ring. 
Of  "Maria"  and  "fire"  they  may  ding, 

And  may  warble  of  "vista"  and  "star," 
But  this  be  the  stone  in  my  sling  : 

I  have  never  made  "a"  rhyme  with  "r." 

EtfYOY. 

Dear  Princess,  I  own  I'm  no  king  ; 

Among  rhymers  I'm  hardly  at  par  ; 
And  yet  to  your  favor  I  cling  : 

I  have  never  made  "a"  rhyme  with  "r." 


-178  Sonnets  and  Ballades. 

Ballctfte  of  JBespatr. 

I'M  in  love,  I  am  certain,  this  time  ; 
Bear  witness  my  dolorous  sighs, 
This  dejection  unfeigned  and  sublime, 
And  the  Byronic  gloom  of  these  eyes. 
Every  charm  of  my  darling  one  tries 
More  sweet  than  the  rest  to  appear, 
And  my  heart  in  its  agony  cries, 
Ah  me,  she  is  dear,  too  dear ! 

All  the  glow  of  some  tropical  clime 
Half  hid  'neath  her  lily  skin  lies, 
But  her  breath  seems  to  whiten  in  rime 
When  to  boldness  she  calmly  replies. 
'Twixt  passion  and  distance  she  flies, 

And  I  hope,  though  I  tremble  with  fear, 
While  these  words  from  my  bosom  uprise, 
Ah  me,  she  is  dear,  too  dear  ! 

For  her  sake  I  would  plunge  into  crime, 

Or  with  virtue  the  world  would  surprise ; 
My  soul  in  her  cause  I'd  begrime, 

Or  would  mount  to  the  star-spattered  skies  ! 
But  I  cannot  by  any  surmise 

Toward  the  port  of  her  good  favor  steer, 
So  I  murmur  in  dolorous  wise, 
Ah  me,  she  is  dear,  too  dear  ! 

ENVOY. 
She  has  taken  my  life  for  a  prize 

Without  paying  me  even  a  tear, 
And  my  sorrow  I  cannot  disguise — 
Ah  me,  she  is  dear,  too  dear  ! 


Sonnets  and  Ballades.  179 

21  Jfobobg,  Don't  5'  Knott). 

THERE'S    young    Smith— he's    a    wonder    for 
-*-     learning : 

His  attainments  are  equaled  by  few  ; 
He  has  wit  that  is  quick  and  discerning, 

And  his  judgment  is  solid  and  true. 
In  philosophy,  ancient  and  new, 

He  knows  Zeno  as  well  as  Thoreau; 
But  to  call  on  him  hardly  would  do  — 

He's  a  nobody,  don't  y'  know  ? 

He  can  tell,  if  to  hear  you  are  yearning, 

Why  the  Chinaman  first  wore  a  cue  ; 
He  has  written  a  treatise  on  churning 

As  'twas  practiced  in  ancient  Peru. 
Of  Sturm's  theorem  he  has  the  clue, 

And  can  tell  you  how  zoophytes  grow; 
But  I  can't  introduce  him  to  you  — 

He's  a  nobody,  don't  y'  know  ? 

He  has  published  an  epic  concerning 

The  exploits  of  King  Brian  Boru  ; 
He  can  tell  you  where  Biela's  is  burning, 

And  when  Bethlehem's  star  is  next  due. 
He  can  sound,  like  the  Swedes  can,  their  "sju," 

And  of  tongues-Jias  a  marvelous  flow; 
But  the  Wayups  his  presence  eschew  — 

He's  a  nobody,  don't  y'  know  ? 

ENVOY. 
And  the  fellow  is  big-hearted  too, 

With  a  record  that's  whiter  than  snow; 
But  his  blood's  not  sufficiently  blue  — 

He's  a  nobody,  don't  y'  know  ? 


180  Sonnets  and  Ballades. 

2lre  ffljrs  Sljcmkful? 

HUMAN  nature's  a  science  replete 
With  mysteries  puzzling  and  rare, 
And  these  lie  the  deepest,  I  weet, 

In  the  sex  that  is  known  as  "  The  Fair." 
Why,  women  are  man's  dearest  care  ; 

He  protects  them  in  sun  and  in  wet ; 
Of  all  comforts  they  take  lion's  share. 
Are  they  thankful  ?    Well,  maybe,  and  yet- 

When  it  rains  and  you're  out  on  the  street, 

And  as  fortune  will  have  it,  a  pair 
Of  these  feminine  charmers  you  meet, 

'Twill  not  do  to  pass  by  with  a  stare, 
Though  new  is  the  tile  that  you  wear ; 

You  lend  your  umbrella,  and  fret 
Should  a  drop  either's  -bonnet  impair. 

Are  they  thankful  ?    Well,  maybe,  and  yet  - 

In  the  street  car  you  capture  a  seat, 

And  you  sigh,  "  I  am  tired,  I  declare." 
But  how  often  you  spring  to  your  feet 

With  a  suave,  Chesterfieldian  air, 
And  a  "  Madam,  be  seated,  right  there  !" 

Some  thank  you,  some  look  their  regret, 
But  they  never  say  no  to  your  prayer. 

Are  they  thankful  ?    Well,  maybe,  and  yet- 

EKVOY. 

There  are  thousands  of  instances  where 
Women  find  themselves  deeply  in  debt 

To  man,  though  he  is  "  such  a  bear." 
Are  they  thankful  ?   Well,  maybe,  and  yet  - 


Sonnets  and  Ballades.  181 

Xante's  3torg  of  Jrance0ca. 

0  FLORENTINE,  about  whose  brows  the  bay, 
Despite  the  envious  years,  twines  green  and  fair, 
w  How  oft,  in  sorrow  more  than  I  can  bear, 
Mine  eyes  overbrimmed,  I  put  thy  book  away  ! 
Yet,  somber  poet,  when  I  read  to-day 
Thy  tale  of  Rimini's  unhappy  pair, 
And  saw  them  wind-whirled  in  the  picture  there 
Drawn  by  the  matchless  pencil  of  Dore, 
I  dropped  the  book  and  gave  a  gladsome  cry, 
As  when  one  feels  within  his  quickened  breast 
Some  new  joy's  revelation  come  to  dwell. 
Oh,  Love  triumphant !     They  go  drifting  by 
In  close  embrace,  with  hearts  together  pressed, 
Having  each  other,  and  so  not  in  hell. 


tt 


LIGHTER  VEIN. 


De  Bonanza. 

IT  was  a  gallant  stranger 
Of  goodly  height  and  weight, 
Who  wore  a  bale  of  whiskers 
Most  fierce  to  contemplate, 
And  eke  an  air  of  freshness 
Brought  from  ye  Golden  Gate. 

He  came  into  my  sanctum 
One  pleasant  afternoon, 

And  hinted  that  we  visit 
Some  neighboring  saloon. 

I  made  a  bad  exception, 
And  went  with  him  full  soon. 

When  we  arrived,  ye  stranger 
Who  hail-ed  from  ye  Coast, 

Drew  forth  a  yellow  eagle, 

And  shouted  to  mine  host : 
"  Ho  !  mix  us  two  bonanzas  — 
We  fain  would  drink  a  toast ! " 

Then  did  ye  skillful  mixer 
Two  bottles  set  in  line, 

185 


186  In  Lighter  Vein. 


Ye  one  containing  brandy, 

Ye  other  yellow  wine  ; 
And  these  two  pleasant  liquids 

Proceeded  to  combine. 

Ye  stranger  eyed  ye  compound 
With  sigh  of  deepest  bliss ; 

Then  down  his  hairy  gullet 
It  slipped  with  gurgling  hiss, 

And  I  did  toss  a  bumper 
Into  mine  own  abyss. 

Then  forth  again  we  sallied 

Into  ye  outer  air, 
When,  lo  !  this  world  seemed  glorious, 

This  life  a  boon  most  rare, 
And  that  bewhiskered  giant 

A  man  divinely  fair  ! 

Quoth  I :  ' '  This  same  bonanza 

Puts  fire  into  ye  heart. 
Return  with  me,  I  prithee, 

Unto  ye  liquor  mart, 
And  I,  as  doth  beseem  me, 

Will  play  ye  buyer's  part." 

When  next  again  we  sallied 

Into  ye  crowded  street, 
'Twas  arm  in  arm  we  wandered, 

And  lifted  high  our  feet, 
Ye  while  ye  gracious  pavement 

Rose  up  our  soles  to  meet. 


In  Lighter  Vein.  187 


Ye  third  time  that  we  issued 
From  that  accursed  den, 

A  change  was  wrought  within  us 
Defying  tongue  or  pen. 

Each  fire-plug  seemed  a  hogshead, 
Each  man  looked  like  to  ten  ! 

And  still  a  fourth  bonanza 
Each  poured  into  his  face, 

Which  caused  ye  mighty  buildings 
All  round  about  to  chase, 

And  make  ye  streets  and  alleys 
Tie  up  and  interlace. 

Anon  ye  swaying  sidewalk 

Grew  rife  with  wriggling  things  ; 
With  lobsters,  pterodactyls, 

And  toads  with  fiery  wings  ; 
With  blue  and  greenish  devils, 

And  snakes  with  twisting  stings. 

That  night,  within  ye  prison, 

I  slept  as  sleep  ye  dead, 
My  right  arm  for  a  pillow, 

An  oak  plank  for  a  bed  ; 
And  when  I  woke  ye  morrow, 

I  wondered  at  my  head  ! 

Since  then,  within  my  pocket 

I  bear  a  monstrous  gun. 
Perchance  I  may  encounter 

Again  that  Native  Son  ; 
And,  if  he  says  "bonanza," 

I'll  either  shoot  or  run  ! 


188  In  Lighter  Vein. 


0 


THE  other  night,  while  digging  out 
Some  bits  of  ancient  truth  and  slander, 
I  read  a  curious  tale  about 
The  bard  of  mighty  Alexander. 

It  seems  the  Conqueror  chose  to  claim 

God-like  Achilles  for  ancestor, 
And  with  that  hero's  musty  fame 

His  friends  he  loved  to  bore  and  pester. 

He  had  his  way,  of  course  ;  you  see 
He  owned  the  earth,  and  it  were  rather 

A  shame  if  such  a  man  as  he 
Could  not  select  his  own  forefather. 

These  days  an  ancient  line  is  bought 
Often  for  slight  considerations  ; 

The  thing  was  not  with  trouble  fraught 
To  one  who  told  his  wealth  by  nations. 

And  when  the  king  had  fixed  upon 
The  blood  from  which  he  drew  his  glory, 

He  studied,  like  a  faithful  son, 
To  ape  his  great  forefather's  story. 

And  first  of  all,  since  he  was  wise, 
And  fond  of  reading  Homer's  pages, 

He  sought  a  bard,  to  advertise 
His  fame  to  all  succeeding  ages. 


In  Lighter  Vein.  189 


' '  'Twas  Homer  sang  Achilles'  wrath/' 

Exclaimed  the  king;  "  what  modern  poet 
Enough  of  force  and  frenzy  hath 

To  take  my  louder  trump  and  blow  it  ? 

"  Old  Homer  starved,  but  he  who  sings 
My  deeds  in  half  so  stately  thunder 
Need  never  fear  misfortune's  flings, 
Nor  want  for  earth's  most  regal  plunder. 

"  But  let  no  common  scribbler  dare 

In  this  great  theme  to  see  his  mission. 
This  is  my  offer,  just  and  fair, 
And  this  its  just  and  fair  condition: 

"For  each  good  line  the  bard  shall  slip 

Into  his  purse  a  mina  yellow ; 
For  each  bad  verse  the  whistling  whip 
About  his  shanks  shall  make  him  bellow." 

Now  want  of  worth  is  ever  bold, 
And  merit  more  o'r  less  retiring. 

Few  bards  were  tempted  by  the  gold, 
And  less  the  lashes  were  desiring. 

Of  only  one  tradition  speaks  — 
Named  Choerilus,  a  bumptious  fellow, 

Who  scribbled  day  and  night  for  weeks, 
Until  his  jowls  grew  thin  and  yellow. 

And  when  at  last  his  brains  ran  dry, 

He  rushed  before  the  monarch,  crying  : 
"Kejoice,  0  king,  that  bard  am  I 

For  whom  so  long  thou  hast  been  sighing." 


190  In  Lighter  Vein. 


An  hour  was  set,  and  he  began  — 

Poor  Choerilus  !  the  sight  was  funny  ; 

Upon  his  left  the  whipping  man, 
Upon  his  right  the  man  with  money. 

He  read  a  line,  and  what  a  line  ! 

It  wouldn't  do;  the  whip  descended. 
He  read  another  ;  at  a  sign 

A  blow  the  second  sentence  ended. 

A  hundred  lines,  a  hundred  blows  ; 

A  thousand  more,  a  thousand  lashes, 
Till  death  relieved  him  of  his  woes, 

And  turned  his  hopes  and  him  to  ashes. 

A  tragic  tale  ;  yet  tell  me,  pray, 

Why  want  should  hound  each  worthy  fellow, 
And  why  some  bards  who  write  to-day 

Should  not  be  thrashed  until  they  bellow  ? 


®t)e  Ulan  in  %  ftlocn. 

THE  Man  in  the  Moon  looked  down,  looked  down, 
As  he  went  sailing  over  town, 
And  spied  a  snug  retreat  and  dark 
Beneath  a  yew  tree  in  a  park. 

Oh,  dear ! 
Why  did  he  smile  so  broad  and  queer  ? 

There  was  a  bench  beneath  the  tree, 
And  on  it  sat  not  one  nor  three, 


In  Lighter  Vein.  191 


And  yet  he  peered  the  branches  through 
To  be  quite  certain  there  were  two. 

Well,  well ! 
Such  tales  the  Man  in  the  Moon  could  tell ! 

He  sent  a  silver  shaft  of  light 

Straight  through  the  vague  and  lying  night ; 

It  flashed  athwart  two  eyes  upturned, 

And  two  with  love  and  youth  that  burned  — 

Alack  ! 
And  these  were  blue  and  those  were  black. 

And  then  the  Man  in  the  Moon  sailed  past 
Across  the  heavens  wild  and  vast, 
And  though  he  smiled,  he  did  not  look 
Again  into  that  leafy  nook. 

Oh !  oh ! 
He  sees  so  much  that's  queer,  you  know  ! 


Some  ?Ba£  —  Jfot  Now. 

SOMETIME  Fll  perform  such  a  wonderful  deed 
That  men  will  grow  breathless  and  pale  when  they 

read; 

Some  day  Til  triumphantly  spring  with  a  bound 
From  the  midst  of  all  creatures  that  walk  on  the  ground ; 
And  suddenly  sprouting  my  wings,  I  will  rise 
To  the  heavens  of  fame,  the  observed  of  all  eyes. 
Oh,  it  makes  my  pulse  throb,  and  it  makes  my  blood 

warm 

When  I  think  of  this  wonderful  deed  I'll  perform, 
Some  day — not  now. 


192  In  Lighter  Vein. 


Sometime  in  the  beautiful  future  Fll  sing 

A  song  that  more  clear  than  a  trumpet  shall  ring  ; 

Some  day,  when  I  feel  my  heart  thrill  through  and 

through 

"With  love  for  the  lovely,  the  good  and  the  true, 
When  my  brain  is  illumined  with  heavenly  ire, 
And  the  wrongs  of  humanity  fill  me  with  fire, 
Oh,  then  I  will  sing  such  a  magical  song, 
Such  a  cry  for  the  right,  such  a  blow  at  the  wrong, 
Some  day — not  now. 

Sometime  I  will  lay  all  my  cowardice  by, 
And  will  dauntlessly  look  the  whole  world  in  the  eye. 
Some  day  I  will  dare  the  false  creeds  of  the  hour, 
And  will  bid  high  defiance  to  custom  and  power. 
Vain,  vain  to  attack  me  with  sneer  or  with  taunt, 
When  my  black  flag  you  see  me  courageously  flaunt. 
Oh,  I  take  off  my  cap  and  I  drop  on  my  knee, 
And  I  worship  the  man  that  I  am  going  to  be 
Some  day — not  now. 

Sometime  I  will  suddenly,  quietly  prove 
That  a  man  can  jolt  out  of  his  natural  groove ; 
Some  day  I  will  leave  all  my  follies  behind, 
All  my  faults  I  will  scornfully  cast  to  the  wind, 
Emerging  at  once  from  the  man  I  have  been, 
Like  a  serpent  is  said  to  crawl  out  of  his  skin. 
Oh,  it  gives  me  such  comfort  to  know  I  shall  stand 
With  those  who'll  be  valiant  and  noble  and  grand 
Some  day — not  now. 


In  Lighter  Vein.  193 


Sollg. 

AOEOSS  the  street  there  dwells,  I  weet, 
The  flower  of  all  the  city, 
And  oh,  could  I  but  tell  her  charms, 
The  world  would  sing  my  ditty  ! 
Her  face  is  fair, 
And  graces  rare 
Of  temper  with  it  tally, 
And  Fate  has  granted  her  to  bear 
The  dear  old  name  of  Sally  ! 

I  lurk  behind  my  window  blind 
For  hours  in  hopes  to  spy  her, 
And  if  I  catch  the  slightest  glimpse 
It  sets  my  heart  afire. 

I  swear  to  you, 

No  flower  yet  grew 
In  garden  or  in  valley, 
And  paradise  itself  has  few 

So  lovely  as  my  Sally. 

Oh,  never  think  her  cheeks  of  pink, 
Nor  yet  her  eyes  entice  me, 
For  were  these  all,  some  other  maids 
Have  charms  that  might  suffice  me. 

But  in  her  mien 

Where'er  she's  seen, 
If  she's  in  silk  or  challis, 
There  shine  the  maiden  and  the  queen, 

The  worth  and  grace  of  Sally  ! 


13 


194  In  Lighter  Vein. 


She  tries  no  arts  to  capture  hearts, 
And  none  to  kindle  passion  ; 
Her  simple  truth  is  lovelier  far 
Than  all  the  tricks  of  fashion, 

And  Cupid's  self, 

The  smitten  elf, 
Near  her  is  fain  to  dally, 
And  shoots  his  shafts  no  more  for  pelf, 

But  all  for  love  and  Sally  ! 

Oh,  would  she  deign  o'er  me  to  reign, 
With  joy  Fd  be  her  minion, 
And  to  her  slightest  wish  I'd  lend 
Anticipation's  pinion ; 

But  oh,  if  she 

Unkind  should  be, 
Since  I  could  never  rally, 
Say  this,  dear  friends,  in  praise  of  me : 

(i  He  died  for  love  of  Sally  ! " 


JDr.  ilHse s  (Srmt 


|ID  you  ever  hear 

Of  old  Dr.  Wise, 
And  his  theories  queer, 

Half  fact,  half  surmise, 
Which  excited  such  vast  scientific  surprise  ? 
This  old  Dr.  Wise  was  a  wonderful  man, 
Who  mostly  to  projects  and  theories  ran  : 
He  could  tell  how  a  fever-germ  acted  and  grew, 
And  always  could  show  you  a  dozen  or  two, 


In  Lighter  Vein.  195 


Tho*  the  poor  devil  lying 

Fever-stricken  and  dying 
He  seldom  or  never  contrived  to  pull  through. 

With  the  greatest  presumption 

He  discoursed  of  consumption, 
And  laid  all  the  blame  on  some  parasite  sly ; 

As  for  cancers  and  tumors, 

They  came  of  bad  humors, 
And  absorption  would  cause  them  to  shrink  up  and  die. 

But  this  wonderful  man  not  alone 

As  a  common  practitioner  shone  ; 

For  who  has  not  heard  how  the  whole  world  was  stirred 
When  he  published  his  book,  "  The  Domestic  Outlook  ; 
Or,  How  to  Exterminate  Rats 
Without  Ferrets  or  Poison  or  Cats  "  ? 
Why,  the  plan  was  so  pretty,  so  simple  and  witty, 
It  seemed  a  great  pity 

That  rats  by  the  million  and  billion  and  trillion 
Should  haunt  human  dwellings  in  country  and  city. 

Just  secure  a  mad  cat ; 

Let  the  cat  bite  a  rat, 

And  there'd  be  a  mad  rat ; 

There  ends  your  labor  ; 

He'd  bite  his  neighbor, 

And  then  this  ojbher 

Would  poison  his  brother. 

Ah  !  I  see  your  face  dimple  with  joy  at  the  scheme. 
'Tis  as  easy  and  sure  as  mince  pie  and  a  dream. 

The  madness  would  spread 

Till  the  last  rat  was  dead. 
But  'twas  most  as  a  critic  that  Dr.  Wise  came 
To  make  for  himself  a  professional  name, 


196  In  Lighter  Vein. 


For,  whenever  a  patient  of  wealth  or  of  birth 
Would  escape  his  physicians  by  fleeing  from  earth, 
Dr.  Wise  never  failed  to  indite  a  review 
Which  showed  that  the  death  to  malpractice  was  due. 
It  is  small  wonder  surely, 

That  a  man  of  such  skill 

Declared  death  to  be  purely 
An  avoidable  ill  which  ought  never  to  kill. 
In  fact,  he  announced  it  to  be  his  conviction 
That  death  in  all  cases  resulted  from  friction  ; 
For  the  body  was  naught  but  machinery  cunning, 
While  life  was  the  power  that  kept  it  a-running. 

Then  why  should  not  science 
Some  cordial  distil 

That  might  bid  defiance 

To  death's  power  to  kill  ? 
Some  unctuous  elixir,  to  friction  superior, 
That  should  lubricate  man's  complicated  interior 
Whenever  he  felt  himself  grow  slightly  wearier  ? 
This  argument  met  on  all  sides  with  great  favor, 
For  of  reason  it  really  did  seem  to  savor. 
Besides,  it  is  true  in  religion  and  physic, 
When  the  spirit  or  body  is  feeble  or  is  sick, 
Man  retains  best  the  nostrums  of  pleasantest  flavor. 
Or,  to  hold  this  thought  up  to  more  evident  view, 
Man  accepts  as  the  truth  what  he'd  like  to  have  true. 
How  many  a  preacher  is  salaried  well 
For  a  weekly  discourse  on  the  absence  of  hell, 
Though  his  parrot-like  lips  nothing  further  can  tell  ! 
Now  in  all  human  breasts  is  implanted  a  strong, 
Illogical  longing  to  live,  and  live  long, 


In  Lighter  Vein.  197 


Antedating  De  Leon's  historical  scramble 
Through  dangerous  wilderness,  thicket  and  bramble, 
Over  desert  and  plain  and  impassable  mountain, 
To  regain  his  lost  years  in  a  mythical  fountain. 
The  world  then  received 

Dr.  Wise  very  kindly ; 
And  ere  long  it  believed 

His  great  theory  blindly. 

The  excitement  produced  in  a  storm  culminated, 
Into  which  the  famed  savant  at  last  fulminated 
That  he,  the  invincible  investigator, 
Had  found  a  receipt  for  the  great  lubricator. 
Well,  to  shorten  a  story  already  too  long, 
A  hall  was  secured  and  a  numberless  throng, 

The  young  and  the  gray, 

The  religious,  the  gay, 

Sisters  and  brothers  and  fathers  and  mothers, 
Assembled  from  everywhere,  distant  and  near, 
A  lecture  on  "  How  to  Live  Always"  to  hear. 
No  scoffers  were  there,  their  belief  was  complete, 
And  each  brought  a  note-book  to  take  the  receipt. 
Eight  o'clock  was  the  hour  which  the  Doctor  had  set — 
Eight  o'clock,  and  he  came  not ;  half -past,  and  not  yet 
Did  his  faithful  disciples  grow  weary  or  fret. 
Nine  o'clock,  and  then  ten,  when,  at  some  one's  sugges- 
tion, 

A  carriage  was  sent  for  the  great  man  in  question. 
It  went,  it  returned,  and  the  news  quickly  spread 
That  the  lecture  was  off,  for  the  Doctor  was  dead  ! 


198  In  Lighter  Vein. 


j'gin'  JJoor 


D'YOU  remember  Hiram  Cawkin, 
Lived  in  York  State  years  ago  ? 
Whut  a  way  he  had  o'  talking 
How  his  voice  was  choked  with  woe  ? 
Allus  on  the  pint  o'  dyin' 
Allus  groaning  grunting  sighin'  ; 
Ask  'im,  "Hiram,  how's  she  goin'  ? 

He'd  a  kinder  knit  his  brow, 
An  would  answer,  lookin'  knowin'  : 

"Thankee, 
Fm  enj'yin'  poor  health  now/' 

Wan't  'e  long  an'  thin'  an'  skinny  ! 
(No  one  ever  called  'im  "tall"  — 
Allus  "long")  an'  so  blame'  thin  'e 
Didn't  hev  no  flesh  at  all  ! 

Seemed  of  all  ambition  lackin', 
'Cept  to  keep  'is  jints  a-crackin' 
An'  to  tell  the  folks  'at  met  'im  — 
Made  no  diffurnce  when  er  how, 
So  they  paused  enough  to  let  'im  : 

"Thankee, 
I'm  enj'yin'  poor  health  now." 

Nineteen  year  er  twenty,  is  it, 

Sence  you  last  was  back  in  Wayne  ? 
Year  ago  I  made  a  visit, 
But  I'll  never  go  again. 
Findin'  all  my  friends  departed 
Made  me  feel  too  heavy-hearted. 


In  Lighter  Vein.  199 


Only  one  man  left  'at  knew  me  — 

Hiram  Cawkin,  an'  I  swow, 
'T  sounded  good  when  he  sez  to  me : 
"Thankee, 

Fm  enj'yin'  poor  health  now." 

Must  be  ninety,  'f  he's  two  hours, 

Old,  y'  know  when  we  was  young ; 
Lived  on  misery.     All  'is  powers 
'Sound  affliction  twined  an'  clung. 
Queer  ol'  feller ;  allus  groanin, 
G-runtin',  whinin',  sighin',  moanin'. 
Soon  to  glory  he'll  be  strayin', 

'N'  I  fancy  'im,  I  vow, 
Buttonholin'  saints,  an'  sayin', 

"Thankee, 
I'm  enj'yin'  poor  health  now  ! " 


ffib0tinate  ©Ur  Man. 


AN  old  man  lived  all  alone,  all  alone, 
And  a  jolly  old  man  was  he. 
He  was  ruddy  and  fat  and  sleek  as  a  rat, 
And  his  leg  was  a  good  thing  to  see. 
His  chest  was  round,  his  liver  was  sound, 

And  his  voice  had  a  chord  of  glee 
As  he  sang  to  himself  while  he  counted  his  pelf 

"  Oh,  ho  ! 
I'm  a  hearty  and  hale  old  man, 

Ah,  ha  ! 
Such  a  sturdy  and  well  old  man  !  " 


200  In  Lighter  Vein. 


Not  a  chick  nor  a  child  had  he  in  the  world, 

Though  his  coffers  were  full  of  gold  ; 
He  had  money  in  chest,  in  trousers,  in  vest, 
From  his  pockets  the  big  dollars  rolled  ; 
He  owned  miles  of  land  and  palaces  grand, 

And  in  bank  had  thousands  untold. 
So  he  sang  all  the  while,  with  a  confident  smile, 

"  Oh,  ho  ! 
Fra  a  likely  and  pert  old  man, 

Ah,  ha  ! 
Such  a  merry  and  brisk  old  man  ! " 

His  brothers  waited  and  longed  in  vain, 

And  for  years,  I  ween,  a  score, 
They  would  meet  each  day  and  pleasantly  say  : 

"The  old  man  is  right  at  Death's  door." 
Then  the  first  one  slept,  and  he  never  wept, 

But  he  laughed  and  sang  the  more, 
And  he  gayly  cried  when  the  last  one  died  : 

"  Oh,  ho  ! 
Fm  a  healthy  and  long-lived  man, 

Ah,  ha  ! 
Such  a  vigorous,  sound  old  man  !  " 

Each  night  his  nephews  and  nieces  dreamt 
Of  how  rich  they  were  going  to  grow, 

And  they  loved  to  hint,  "  We  will  never  stint 
When  our  ship  comes  in,  you  know." 

But  I  grieve  to  tell,  he  kept  hale  and  well 
While  the  years  went  dragging  slow, 

And  he  cackled  loud  o'er  the  last  one's  shroud  : 


In  Lighter  Vein.  201 


"  Oh,  ho  ! 
Fm  a  hardy  and  stout  old  man, 

Ah,  ha  ! 
Such  a  lusty  and  tough  old  man  !  " 

And  he's  living  yet,  all  alone  by  himself, 

This  man  I  am  singing  about. 
Oh,  his  eye  is  bright  and  his  step  is  light, 

And  his  voice  is  cheery  and  stout  ; 
His  cheeks  are  red  and  he  holds  up  his  head 

In  a  way  that  puts  death  to  rout, 
So  I  can't  see  why  he  should  ever  die  — 

Oh,  dear  ! 
Such  a  healthy  and  well  old  man, 

Ah  me  ! 
Such  an  obstinate,  tough  old  man  ! 


Homcm 


I  SING-  the  nose,  the  kind  that  grows 
Into  a  huge  proboscis  ; 
The  sort  that  doctors  diag-nose 
"Elephantiasis  naris  ossis." 
Avaunt,  ye  folks  with  tiny  snouts, 

Of  flat,  insipid  features  ! 
The  Muse  will  none  of  you  ;  she  scouts 
Such  ordinary  creatures  ! 

I  sing  the  Roman  nose  —  the  scythe 
That  mows  its  way  to  glory  ; 

Sure  sign  of  natures  strong  and  blythe, 
Well  known  in  song  and  story. 


202  In  Lighter  Vein. 


On  battlefield,  in  civil  life, 
In  senate,  court  and  cloister, 

The  Roman  nose  is  like  a  knife, 
The  world  is  like  an  oyster. 

The  wight  whose  nose  describes  a  curve 

Like  beak  of  kite  or  vulture, 
Is  sure  to  be  a  man  of  nerve, 

And  oft  is  one  of  culture. 
Just  cast  your  eye  o'er  Clio's  page  ; 

Research  one  fact  discloses  : 
The  mighty  men  of  every  age 

Were  men  of  mighty  noses. 

Then  let  us  toast  the  big-nosed  host ; 

Let's  raise  a  lusty  chorus 
Of  loud  "Amens"  from  sea  and  coast, 

Stertorous  and  sonorous. 
And  since  the  promontoried  face 

Than  others  is  completer, 
God  speed  the  day  the  human  race 

Will  shame  the  great  Ant-eater  ! 

©tit  in  9Tokio. 

EDWIN  Arnold,  Edwin  Arnold, 
Is  the  story  true, 
That  a  little  Jap  girl 

Has  befuddled  you  ? 
All  the  world  is  anxious, 

And  would  like  to  know, 
If  you're  growing  spoony 
Out  in  Tokio. 


In  Lighter  Vein.  203 


Out  in  Tokio,  out  in  Tokio, 
Are  you  growing  spoony 
Out  in  Tokio  ? 

You,  a  knight  and  scholar, 

Lauded  to  the  sky  ; 
You,  a  famous  poet 

AndaC.  S.  L; 
You,  a  leader-writer, 

With  a  wondrous  flow, 
Courting  yellaw  maidens 

Out  in  Tokio  ! 
Out  in  Tokio,  out  in  Tokio, 
Courting  pudgy  maidens 

Out  in  Tokio  ! 

Such  a  novel  caper — 

Bless  us,  this  is  fun  ! 
And  they  tell  us  you  were 

Born  in '31. 
Old  enough,  I  fancy, 

"Wise  enough,  I  trow, 
Not  to  lose  your  senses 

Out  in  Tokio. 

Out  in  Tokio,  out  in  Tokio, 
Have  you  lost  your  senses 

Out  in  Tokio  ? 

Yet  the  little  Jap  girls 

Really  are  sweet, 
With  their  chubby  bodies 

And  their  dainty  feet. 


204  In  Lighter  Vein. 


If  I  weren't  so  busy 

I  would  like  to  go 
Giving  kissing  lessons 

Out  in  Tokio. 

Out  in  Tokio,  out  in  Tokio, 
Teaching  osculation 

Out  in  Tokio. 

Love,  the  wide  world  over, 

Catches  small  and  great ; 
Maidens'  eyes  are  fatal, 

Whether  slant  or  straight. 
Hearts  were  made  to  open, 

Just  as  buds  to  blow. 
Luck  to  bold  Sir  Edwin 

Out  in  Tokio  ! 
Out  in  Tokio,  out  in  Tokio, 
Luck  to  gallant  Edwin 

Out  in  Tokio ! 


21  Song  of  a  Sl)irt. 

[Dedicated  to  Charles  A.  Dana.] 

I  SING-  the  flannel  shirt.   I  would  maintain  a 
Discussion  started  first  by  Charles  A.  Dana, 
Who  has  so  much  about  the  subject  squirted 
That  every  one  believes  him  flannel-shirted ; 
Though,  sooth  to  say,  'twixt  preaching  and  applying, 
There's  often  fixed  a  mighty  gulf  of  lying. 
Peculiar  Dana  !  erudite,  begoggled ; 
Long  time  has  he  upon  Life's  highway  joggled, 


In  Lighter  Vein.  205 


Making  the  whole  world  wonder,  as  now  I  do, 

When  next  he'd  cut  some  unexampled  dido. 

I  really  hope  he'll  not  get  mad  and  swear,  if 

I  disagree  with  him  about  the  tariff. 

Supporting  parties,  and  their  tenets  damning, 

Is  nothing  'cept  the  keenest  kind  of  shamming. 

There's  many  another  odd,  fantastic  caper 

He's  cut  from  time  to  time,  in  his  great  paper. 

For  instance,  when  so  boastfully  he  blustered 

About  the  merits  of  a  king  of  mustard 

Proposing  for  the  presidential  mansion  — 

A  Western  trust's  obscure  and  feeble  stanchion. 

Then,  too,  I  always  fancied  there  was  harm  in 

His  queer  ideas  anent  the  art  of  farm  in'. 

But  why  waste  time  and  paper  scribbling  railings 

At  such  a  good  and  great  man's  petty  failings  ? 

When  after  ages  have  forgot  his  blundering, 

His  mighty  name  shall  still  go  grandly  thundering 

Adown  the  years,  a  snowball  waging  greater, — 

The  flannel  shirt  fad's  first  originator. 

Then  yield  him  present  fame ;  much  weal  to  him  an' 

his; 

Oft  may  his  pole  reach  first  where  the  persimmon  is. 
When  summer  days  are  muggy,  moist  and  torrid, 
And  salty  rills  run  down  the  tickled  forehead ; 
When  ironed  collars  scratch  the  smarting  gullet 
Until  it's  rough  and  red  as  any  mullet, 
Or  ridge  about  the  neck  'till  one  is  dull,  sure, 
Who  sees  in  man  no  semblance  to  a  vulture ; 
When  pious  folk,  in  fact,  observe  no  sin  in 
Wishing  to  hades  everything  that's  linen, 


206  In  Lighter  Vein. 


Immortal  Charles  !  I  think  of  thee.     Then  fancy 

Comes  with  her  weird,  ecstatic  necromancy, 

And  pictures  thee  in  skies  of  glory  sailing, 

Thy  flannel  shirt  about  thee  coolly  trailing  ! 

Hence  these  poor  lines.     Oh,  damn  them  not  with 

laughter  — 
I  seek  to  seize  the  tale  and  follow  after. 


(JIonfe00ion  of  Cot)e. 


I 


'M  in  love  with  a  widow.     I  own  it.     I  swear  it ! 
Fill  your  glasses,  and  drink  me  her  weal. 


Kidicule,  disaffection — let  none  of  you  dare  it; 
Real  love  is  too  precious,  and  my  love  is  real. 

But  first,  jolly  friends,  ere  you  hasten  to  pledge  her, 

Of  her  virtues  Fll  briefly  descant ; 
Everything  that  is  charming  Fll  boldly  allege  her  — 

"More  virtues   than  virtue?"    Ah,  well,   that   Fll 
grant. 

As  a  comrade,  my  widow's  seductively  sprightly ; 

Nature  made  her,  and  then  made  no  more ; 
Hours  of  transport  I  spend  in  her  company  nightly ; 

I  have  ceased  but  to  love,  I'm  a  slave,  I  adore  ! 

The  first  kiss  that  I  give  her  deliciously  thrills  me, 
And  the  next  shoots  a  glow  to  my  heart, 

But  the  madness  that  finally  seizes  me,  fills  me, 
Makes  me  fear  my  sweet  witch,  while  I  bow  to  her 
art. 


In  Lighter  Vein.  207 


Yet  why  should  I  fear  her  ?    She  fills  me  with  daring, 

With  great  purpose  and  lofty  resolve ; 
She  transports  me  beyond  all  annoyance's  wearing; 

In  her  smile  all  my  troubles,  like  vapor,  dissolve. 

She's  kind-hearted,  my  charmer ;  for,  swayed  by  her 
magic, 

I  am  friendly  with  lover  and  foe ; 
And  if  any  man  loves  her,  he'll  not  find  me  tragic, 

For  my  widow,  dear  friends,  is  the  widow  Cliquot ! 


at  ftlr0. 

[See  Horace  Satires,  ii.,  viii.] 

DID  you  attend  the  high  tea  of  Mrs.  Bacon  Ehynde  ? 
No  ?    Well,  you  missed  such  splendor  as  you  will 

seldom  find. 

The  hostess  spared  no  trouble  to  make  it  recherche, 
And  what  in  taste  was  lacking  was  made  up  in  display. 
A  canvas  from  her  portico  extended  to  the  street, 
And  rich  and  costly  carpets  were  spread  beneath  the 

feet; 
A  gorgeous  costumed  footman  first  helped  us  to  the 

ground, 
Then  waved  us  to  the  front  door,  with  salaam  most 

profound ; 
But,  once  within  the  mansion,  such  splendor  met  the 

gaze 

That  one  might  well  give  vent  to  some  courteous  amaze 
In  little  "ahs"  and  "lovelys,"  that  meagerly  expressed 
The  admiration  great  of  each  newly  entered  guest, 


208  In  Lighter  Vein. 


But  all  the  decoration  had  nothing  to  compare 

With  the  flowers  in  profusion,  seen  blooming  every- 
where. 

Round  grates  and  lofty  mirrors  they  seemed  to  trail 
and  bloom ; 

From  rich  and  costly  vases  they  shed  a  faint  perfume ; 

From  crystal  chandeliers  they  were  pendant  overhead. 

The  whole  scene  was  a  wonder  of  green,  and  white,  and 
red. 

'Mid  all  the  festal  bravery  the  hostess  moved,  elate, 

In  rustling  silks  and  laces,  in  splendid  jeweled  state; 

Her  fat  and  jolly  features  bedewed  with  beads  of  sweat, 

Her  very  dress  in  places  with  perspiration  wet ; 

While    little    founts    of    moisture   sprung    from    her 

shoulders  and 
Ran    trickling    through    the    powder,    like   brooklets 

through  the  sand. 

Her  costume  was  a  marvel,  and  every  one  confessed 
The  lady  was  most  richly  and  wonderfully  dressed. 
The  epaulettes  of    ribbon    that    from   her  shoulders 

flapped 

The  climax  of  her  costume  appropriately  capped. 
To  add  to  all  this  grandeur,  and  make  it  just  aufait, 
Tight   clasped    in  bulging  gauntlets  she  held  a  big 

bouquet. 

But  now  I  know  you  wonder  who  at  the  hostess'  side 

Stood  ready  to  assist  her,  her  labors  to  divide. 

Two    young    and    lovely    ladies    were    to    this    task 

assigned  — 
Miss  Esmerelda  Rashyr,  Miss  Eva  Bacon  Rhynde. 


In  Lighter  Vein.  209 


The  guests  at  last  are  gathered,  and  round  the  table 

placed, 

Discussing  tea  and  gossip,  with  well-developed  taste. 
A  woman's  pretty  mouth's  not  unlike  Pandora's  box, 
For  out  of  it,  when  opened,  misfortunes  fly  in  flocks. 
In  tenderest  female  bosoms  good  names  are  doomed  to 

death, 

And  foulest  tales  are  wafted  at  first  by  sweetest  breath. 
So  these  good  ladies  soon  turned  the  wasps  of  scandal 

loose, 
And,  while  they  praised  the  hostess,  took  notes  for 

future  use. 

But  who  composed  this  throng,  of  such  wit  and  beauty 

rare  ? 

I  cannot  name  them  all,  for  the  elite  all  were  there. 
No  common  Smiths  and  Joneses  were  in  that  stylish 

crowd, 
But  Sybyl  Smythe  was  present,  and  those  de  Joneses 

proud ; 

With  Mrs.  Kandolph  Baykyr  was  Miss  Estella  Close, 
And  Georgianna  Roset — her  uncle's  name  is  Rose. 
Minna  de  Longe  was  there,  too,  bejeweled,  decollete — 
Her  name  was  Molly  Long  once,  so  cruel  gossips  say. 
Her  father  took  to  dredging,  and  made  his  pretty  pile  ; 
To   boarding-school  went   Mary,  and  stayed   a  little 

while ; 

A  grub  she  went  away,  but  a  butterfly  became — 
Too  fine  a  thing  by  far  for  a  common,  vulgar  name ! 
And    I   must   not  forget    sweet  Geralde  de  Vincent 

Stubs— 
Her  mother,  Lucy  Stubb,,  once  bent  over  washing-tubs ; 


210  In  Lighter  Vein. 


Nor  must  I  pass  Miss   Blacke  by,  nor  fair  Blanche 

Hyggynstone, 
Who  scorn  the  Blacks  and  Higgins,  and  disdainfully 

disown  ! 

Oh  !  magic  god  of  Mammon  !  For,  in  so  brief  a  while, 
These  haughty  titles  blossom  beneath  thy  potent  smile. 
And,  oh  !  this  fruitful  country,  this  strong,  young  land 

of  ours, 
Where  honor  grows  so  fast  when  refreshed  by  golden 

showers  ! 
Ancestors,  crests  and  heirlooms  —  we  need  no  thousand 

years : 
Give  us  a  little  money,  and  how  soon  the  rest  appears  ! 

Our  hostess  was  most  eager  that  none  should  fail  to  see 

How  quite  aristocratic  was  her  mode  of  serving  tea  ; 

And,  lest  some  little  detail  should  lack  admiring  eyes, 

She  talked  of  this  and  that,  and  solicited  replies. 

Whene'er  her  language  failed,  or  her  meaning  scarce 
expressed, 

Miss  Kashyr  or  Miss  Rhynde  would  interpolate  the  rest. 

She  said  she  hoped  her  guests  would  excuse  her  if  she 
tried 

To  show  how  things  were  managed  "upon  the  other 
side;" 

That  she  was  just  from  Yurrip,  and  meant  soon  to  go 
again, 

Where  she  took  observations  among  the  ' 'upper  ten." 

Miss  Rasher  then  remarked  that  the  flowers  were 
gorgeous,  very. 

" They  all  came,"  said  the  hostess,  "from  my  conserva- 
tory." 


In  Lighter  Vein.  211 


Here  Miss  Rhynde  hoped  the  cake's  taste  was  equal  to 

its  look, 
As  it  was  made  by  their  new  ten-thousand-dollar  cook. 

And  now  our  hostess  gave  us  a  genuine  surprise  : 
Our  ears  she  next  delighted,  as  well  as  taste  and  eyes. 
From  out  a  bower  of  roses  there  came  a  dulcet  din  — 
The  band  was  led,  she  told  us,  "by  Signer  Mandolin." 
But  yet  our  entertainment  by  no  means  was  complete ; 
It  seems  she  still  had  for  us  reserved  a  mental  treat. 
She  introduced  a  young  man,  Professor  Lawrence  Brays, 
And  said  he'd  read  us  something  from  "Mr.  Shakes- 
peare's plays." 

But  here  an  interruption  inopportune  occurred  — 
A  servant  entered,  boldly,  as  one  who  will  be  heard, 
And  said  :  "Plaize,  mum,  there's  waiting  below,  widin 

the  dhure, 

A  dapper  little  fellow,  who  says  you'll  see  him,  sure. 
He  sthripped  his  hat  an'  coat  off,  as  handy  as  you  please, 
An'  says,  '  I'm  ripresintin'  the  Daily  Mornin'  Breeze. ' ' 
"Oh  dear !  it's  a  reporter,"  the  hostess  cried  in  grief ; 
"  I  do  declare,  such  boldness  almost  exceeds  belief. 
I  shrink  from  public  notice,  'tis  such  a  vulgar  thing ; 
Send  him  about  his  business  with  his  reportering." 
"  Indade,  he'd  not  uv  passed  me,"  chimed  Patrick  in 

with  vim, 

"Had  not  the  lyin'  spalpeen  tould  me  you  sint  for  him." 
At  this  a  muffled  titter  broke  out,  but  quickly  died, 
While  Mrs.  Rhynde  most  sternly  the  stupid  servant  eyed. 
In  fact,  a  pause  quite  awkward  fell  on  the  gathering  gay, 
Until  Miss  Rashyr  went  down  to  send  the  wretch  away. 


212  In  Lighter  Vein. 


But,  ah,  the  sly  reporter !   he's  made  of  eyes  and  ears ; 
For  in  this  morning's  daily  a  full  account  appears. 
"Aristocratic  Splendor/'  the  screed  is  headed  so, 
And  all  the  decorations  are  mentioned  high  and  low ; 
The  list  of  guests  is  given,  the  costumes  that  each  wore, 
While  all  throughout,  the  hostess  is  lauded  o'er  and  o'er. 

But  hours  of  merry-making  fly  from  us  wondrous  fast, 
And  even  so  much  splendor  could  not  forever  last. 
The  ladies  speak  of  leaving ;  'round  Mrs.  Ehynde  they 

press 

To  say  they've  had  such  pleasure  as  words  cannot  express. 
Another  interruption,  however,  mars  the  scene, 
And  clothes  with  sudden  thunder  the  hostess'  brow 

serene. 
For  Mr.  Clarence  Khynde,  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  his 

hat, 
Eushed  in,  exclaiming,  "  Here,  now,  what  are  you  women 

at? 

I  know  that  mother  told  me  to  keep  myself  away, 
But  f 'r  all  these  fancy  fixin's  I  have  the  bills  to  pay. 
I  want  ye  to  feel  welcome,  an'  so  I've  had  a  team 
Drive  'round  from  Sweetner's,  loaded  with  candy  an'  ice 

cream. 

Don't  scowl  so  at  me,  mother  ;  I  guess  I  know  my  biz  ; 
I  feel  like  celebratin',  for,  mother,  pork  is  riz  ! " 

As  near  as  I  remember,  that's  all  you'd  care  to  hear  ; 
And  yet  this  brief  description  is  very  poor,  I  fear. 
To  Mrs.  Rhynde's  next  high  tea  you  mustn't  fail  to  go  ; 
Just  change  your  name  to  Smythe  and  she'll  look  you 
up,  I  know. 


THANKSGIVING  THOUGHTS. 


Stye  Agnostic. 

I  DO  not  know  whom  I  should  thank, 
And  if  I  thank  the  wrong  one, 
Who'll  save  me,  'tis  a  query  frank, 
From  anger  of  the  Strong  One  ? 

So  I  will  live  and  go  my  way, 
Like  other  things  are  going, 

And  save  my  thanks  until  a  day 
When  I  become  more  knowing. 


Stye  materialist. 

0  PRINCIPLE  of  Life,  that  lives 
About  all  things,  and  through  and  through: 
Most  penetrating  Power,  that  gives 
Old  things  the  grace  to  change  to  new  ! 

Which  shall  I  praise  and  honor  most, 
The  wave  that  ever  ebbs  and  swells, 

Or  Nature's  vast  and  varied  host, 
In  which  this  essence  sweetly  dwells  ? 

215 


216  TJwnksgiving  Thoughts. 

QUjt  Ihrj)  JJoor  ittan. 

T  THANK  Thee,  Lord,  that  I  have  strength 

J-     To  work  a  day  of  any  length. 

I  thank  Thee,  also,  that  the  powers 

Have  not  increased  my  working  hours ; 

That  shelter,  clothing,  food  and  fire, 

Though  high  enough,  are  not  still  higher  ; 

That  so  few  babes  my  household  bless 

(I  would  have  been  content  with  less). 

I  thank  Thee  that  my  wife  is  strong 

And  works  to  help  us  get  along. 

I  thank  Thee  that  my  girl  and  boy 

Have  in  the  factory  found  employ, 

And  only  work  ten  hours  a  day  — 

I  wonder  if  they  sigh  for  play  ? 

I  thank  Thee  for  myself  and 'wife 

That  there's  an  end  some  time  to  life. 

Stye  JJura-proufo  Jttan. 

OLORD,  I  thank  Thee  for  my  wealth 
And  all  the  blessings  which  it  buys : 
The  joys  of  travel,  freedom,  health, 

And  power  that  even  law  defies. 
Learned  though  I  am  not,  when  I  speak, 
Applause  attends,  and  deference  meek. 

Fair  women  woo  me  with  their  smiles  ; 

Perhaps  they  love  not — who  can  tell  ? 
So  sweetly  skillful  are  their  wiles, 

Deception  pleases  me  as  well. 


Thanksgiving  Thoughts.  217 

I  enter  halls  of  wealth  and  pride, 
And  worth  and  honor  stand  aside. 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  all  my  life 

Thy  special  favor  hovers  o'er, 
Guarding  it  well  from  vulgar  strife. 

And,  Lord,  I  do  respect  Thee  more 
That  Thou  hast  had  the  wit  to  see 

The  difference  'twixt  the  mob  and  me. 


Stye  fttoierate  fflan. 

FOE  life  and  hope  and  sweet  content, 
For  heavenly  favors  justly  sent, 
For  honest  toil  and  its  reward, 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord. 

Because  no  foolish  lust  for  praise 
Makes  more  than  wretched  all  my  days, 
Nor  threatens  sleep  with  sword  of  flame, 

I  bless  Thy  name. 

For  children,  home  and  faithful  wife, 
For  all  the  joys  of  simple  life, 
For  freedom  from  desires  abhorred, 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord, 

Because  I  am  not  rich  nor  poor, 
Because  no  beggar  shuns  my  door, 
And  no  proud  man  my  soul  can  tame, 

I  bless  Thy  name. 


218  Thanksgiving  Thoughts. 

®l)e  Cl)ri0ttan. 

GOD  of  the  wooing  spring, 
Of  pregnant  summer,  fertile  fall, 
And  winter,  wrapped  and  slumbering  ; 
I  hear  Thy  voice  when  linnets  sing, 
Or  brooding  thunders  hoarsely  call ; 
I  see  Thy  hand  in  everything, 
Guiding  and  shaping  all. 

God  of  the  perfect  year, 

God  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

'Tis  Thee  I  thank  with  grateful  tear 

For  purple  grape  and  yellow  ear, 

And  all  these  blessings  round  me  spread  ; 

I  am  Thy  child,  well  known  and  dear ; 

From  Thy  hand  I  am  fed. 

Should  sorrow  come,  or  pain, 

I  still  would  magnify  Thy  name. 

In  blighting  drought  and  saving  rain, 

In  wealth  increased,  and  labor  vain, 

In  honor,  station,  or  in  shame, 

Thy  purpose  works,  obscure  or  plain  ; 

Thy  wisdom  lives  the  same. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


to  ?Dellm0. 

[Liber  ii.,  Carmen  iii.] 

BE  brave  in  trial  and  in  pain ; 
With,  placid  mind  thy  griefs  defy, 
And  let  not  Fortune  make  thee  vain, 
0  Dellius,  for  thou  must  die. 

Whether  thy  life  must  all  be  sad, 
Or  days  of  festive  joy  be  thine, 

While  grassy  lollings  make  thee  glad, 
And  draughts  of  old  Falerian  wine. 

Where  giant  pine  and  poplar  white 
Weave  lovingly  their  wooing  shade, 

And  where  the  rill  takes  mazy  flight 
With  silvery  laughter  down  the  glade, 

There  order  wines  and  perfumes  sent, 
With  sweet  Vose  blooms  too  quickly  fled, 

While  life  and  youth  to  thee  are  lent, 
And  ere  the  dark  Three  snap  thy  thread. 

Thou  must  depart  that  villa  fair, 
Those  lawns  by  tawny  Tiber's  side ; 

Thou  must  depart,  and  then  an  heir 
With  thy  vast  wealth  will  glut  his  pride. 

221 


222  Translations. 


Art  rich,  and  sprung  from  ancient  kings  ? 

Or  poor,  and  made  of  vilest  clay  ? 
No  difference  such  distinction  brings, 

For  all  are  cruel  Orcus'  prey. 

The  same  end  waits  for  all ;  or  late 
Or  soon  thy  lot  must  leave  the  urn, 

When  Charon's  bark  must  be  thy  fate  — 
An  exile,  never  to  return. 

Sciut  la  Cgre. 

[After  Victor  Hugo.] 

WITH  all  trials  Thou  hast  tried  me, 
0  my  God  ! 
I  have  known  not  where  to  hide  me 

From  the  rod. 
I  have  sinned  not,  yet  my  guerdon 

Is  sharp  pain ; 
I  am  with  my  daily  burden 

All  but  slain. 
Disappointment's  fiery  lashes 

Smite  me  sore, 
And  my  honors  seem  but  ashes 

At  the  core. 
I  have  plowed  in  bitter  weather, 

Sown  in  tears, 
And  have  seen  my  worst  foe  gather 

All  the  ears. 
With  my  fame  have  Malice,  Frenzy 

Had  their  way, 
Like  the  lean-ribbed  tigress,  when  she 

Kends  her  prey. 


Translations.  223 


I  have  dreamed  so  much,  my  reason 

Turns  to  doubt. 
Jealousy  has  with  its  treason 

Found  me  out. 
I  have  searched,  pale-faced,  forsaken, 

Heaven's  dome, 
While  my  dead  were  being  taken 

From  my  home. 
Do  such  sorrows  make  me  curse  Thee  — 

Woes  like  these  ? 
Nay,  0  God,  I  laud  Thy  mercy 

On  my  knees  ; 
For  my  heart,  however  riven, 

Seared  with  pain, 
Has  ne'er  loved  and  not  been  given 

Love  again  ! 

So  be  a  |)aet. 

[From  the  French.] 

TO  be  a  poet  ?    'Tis  to  love 
The  soul  in  nature  that  reposes ; 
The  sun,  Love's  self,  the  fragrant  roses, 
And  all  sweet  things  below,  above. 

To  be  a  poet  ?    'Tis  to  feel 

Infinity  within  thy  breast ; 

To  suffer  with  the  world's  oppressed, 
And  prove  with  deeds  thy  sorrow  real. 

To  be  a  poet  ?    'Tis  to  sigh 

With  hope  that  life  devotes,  sublimes ; 

To  suffer  death  a  thousand  times, 
And  then  at  last  never  to  die ! 


224  Translations. 


to  Cljloe. 

[Liber  L,  Carmen  xxiii.] 

CHLOE  flees  me  like  a  fawn 
For  its  timid  mother  running, 
Into  pathless  mountains  gone, 
Every  wind-stirred  thicket  shunning. 

Let  a  bush  but  feel  a  breeze, 
Or  green  lizard  in  it  shaking, 

And  the  timid  creature's  knees 

And  her  breast  with  fear  are  quaking. 

I'm  no  Afric  lion,  dear, 
No  fierce  tigress,  you  to  harry  : 

Leave  your  mother  and  your  fear ; 
You  are  old  enough  to  marry. 


So  £ot)e  luieeir. 

[From  the  Greek  Anthology.] 

SAY  not  "I  love,"  when  Beauty  storms, 
And  takes  perforce  thy  willing  heart ; 
Her  kindling  smile  each  bosom  warms, 
Her  eye  is  Cupid's  bow  and  dart. 
For  rosy  cheeks  and  breasts  of  snow, 

And  teeth  that  gleam  where  red  lips  be, 
Such  things  will  drive  men  daft,  you  know, 
As  long  as  men  can  think  or  see, 


Translations.  225 


But  if  a  passion  in  thee  rise 

For  one  whose  outward  look  is  bad, 

Then  dost  thou  see  with  partial  eyes ; 
Then  love  indeed  hath  made  thee  mad. 

For  scented  breath  and  laughter  low, 
And  thrilling  eyes  of  gray  or  jet — 

All  men  must  yield  to  these,  you  know, 
As  long  as  suns  shall  rise  and  set. 


15 


[From  the  Greek  Anthology.] 

rpHROUGH  a  shady  forest  going, 
-*-     Found  we  Cupid  all  alone, 
And  his  cheeks,  so  smoothly  glowing, 
Like  to  golden  apples  shone. 

He  had  not  his  quiver  by  him, 
Nor  his  bow  well-bent  and  strung  ; 

But  we  soon  espied  them  nigh  him, 
'Midst  the  leafy  branches  hung. 

Chains  of  sleep  his  limbs  encumbered, 
While  am®ng  the  flowers  he  lay  ; 

Smiling,  even  when  he  slumbered, 
In  his  cruel,  roguish  way. 

Swarms  of  tawny  bees  came  flying 

All  about  his  waxen  lip  — 
Often  thus  one  sees  them  trying 

Flowers  that  with  honey  drip. 


226  Translations. 


ffilje  Broken  t)a0e. 

[From  the  French.] 

THE  vase  where  this  vervain  is  dying 
Was  cracked  by  a  fan  lightly  swayed, 
By  a  blow  that  was  surely  not  trying, 
And  that  scarcely  a  sound-tremor  made. 

But  the  seemingly  harmless  beginning 

Has  eaten  the  crystal  each  day 
With  progress  invisible,  winning 

Eound  the  glass  its  insidious  way. 

Drop  by  drop  its  fresh  water  is  going, 
Which  the  flowers  revived  and  awoke ; 

The  fissure  is  there,  no  one  knowing : 
So  touch  not  the  vase  ;  it  is  broke. 

Thus  carelessness  oft,  when  a  lover's, 

Wounds  the  heart,  though  it  utter  no  cry  ; 

Thus  it  breaks  of  itself,  nor  recovers, 
And  its  flowers  of  sentiment  die. 

Its  appearance,  no  doubt,  is  deceiving, 
But  it  grieves  o'er  the  one  wounded  spot, 

While  it  feels  itself  secretly  cleaving — 
It  is  broke,  it  is  broke,  touch  it  not ! 


Translations.  227 


JJremter  Sotirtre  im  JJrtntemjw. 

[From  the  French  of  Gauthier.] 

WHILST  the  stubborn  human  race 
Is  intent  upon  its  sinning, 
March,  who  laughs  in  Winter's  face, 
Slyly  plans  the  spring's  beginning. 

Round  the  dainty  Easter  daisies, 
While  the  dreaming  world  is  still, 

Cunningly  the  fringe  he  raises, 
Shapes  each  golden  ball  with  skill. 

He's  to  Nature,  as  I  take  it, 
Chief  hair-dresser,  and  with  fine 

Snow  he  fills  his  puff,  to  shake  it 
Over  tree  and  whitened  vine. 

Now  she  in  her  couch  reposes ; 

He  is  in  the  garden  seen 
Lacing  tight  the  coy  young  roses ' 

In  their  corset's  velvet  green. 

Now  and  then  a  sweet  wind-ditty 
To  the  merl  he  whistles  low  ; 

Here  and  there  his  hands  the  pretty 
Violets  and  snowdrops  sow. 

By  the  fountain  side  he  lingers  ; 

Where  the  shy  stag  drinks  he  dwells, 
Opening  with  unseen  fingers 

Lily-of-the-valley  bells. 


228  Translations. 


He  is  hiding  in  the  meadow 

Strawberries  of  vermeil  hue ; 
He  is  weaving  coolest  shadow 

From  the  sun  to  shelter  you. 

Soon  his  labors'  end  discerning, 
Knowing  that  his  reign  is  o'er, 

Toward  April's  threshold  turning, 
Cries  he:   " Spring,  come  out  of  door  I" 


emir  Cljtlir. 

TVESIDE  a  cradle  for  a  space 
-D    An  angel  paused  and  bent  to  look, 
And  seemed  to  see  his  own  pure  face 
As  in  the  mirror  of  a  brook. 

"Dear  child,  that  so  resemblest  me," 
He  sweetly  said,  "ah,  come  away. 
Together  we  shall  happy  be ; 
Thou  art  too  good  on  earth  to  stay. 

"There  is  no  perfect  bliss  below; 

For  even  pleasure  has  its  sting, 
Each  song  of  gladness  chords  of  woe, 
Each  joy  its  sigh  of  suffering. 

"  Oh,  then,  must  trouble  and  must  fears 

Impair  the  beauty  of  thy  brow  ? 
Must  sorrow  dim  with  bitter  tears 
Those  eyes,  where  heaven  is  shining  now  ? 


Translations.  229 


"No,  no.     The  flowery  firmament, 
The  fields  of  glory  for  us  wait ; 
Toward  thee  doth  ProVidence  relent, 
And  saves  thee  from  an  earthly  fate. 

"Let  none  wear  mourning  in  thy  home, 
For  all  should  be  as  glad,  dear  child, 
This  day  that  bids  thy  spirit  roam, 
As  when  thy  blue  eyes  earliest  smiled. 

"Let  no  face  there  show  sorrow's  sign  ; 

Let  no  one  deck  the  house  for  death  ; 
For  when  the  soul  is  white  as  thine, 
The  latest  is  the  happiest  breath." 

And  speaking  thus,  the  angel  wide 
His  snowy  pinions  waved,  and  fled 

To  where  the  pure  for  aye  abide. 
Poor  mother,  see,  thy  babe  is  dead  ! 

djgmn  to  3lpl)r0btte. 

[From  the  Greek  of  Sappho.] 

Translations  of  this,  the  most  complete  of  the  Sapphic  fragments,  have 
been  made  by  Ambrose  Phillips,  1711;  by  Herbert,  1713;  by  Edwin 
Arnold,  1869;  by  John  Herman  Merivale,  1833 ;  by  T.  W.  Higginson, 
1871 ;  by  J.  Addington  Symonds,  1883,  and  by  others.  The  exquisite  finish 
and  divine  frenzy  of  the  Lesbian  poetess  can  never  be  even  hinted  at. 
Even  Swinburne  has  failed  in  his  celebrated  "  Sapphics,"  though  he  has 
made  a  most  creditable  effort. 

OPLENDOR-ENTHRONED,  divine -Aphrodite, 
U  Daughter  of  Zeus,  wily  weaver  of  snares, 
Crush  me  not,  goddess,  with  agony  mighty  ; 
Hear  these^my  prayers. 


230  Translations. 


Haste  now,  if  ever  thy  heart  has  grown  tender 

When  I  have  called  to  thee,  calling  afar  ; 
Come  now,  as  erst,  from  the  home  of  thy  splendor, 
Yoking  thy  car. 

Fair  are  thy  sparrows,  with  well  plumed  pinions, 

Fleetly  all  round  the  dark  planet  they  flew, 
Whirling  thee  swift  through  the  azure  dominions, 
Out  of  the  blue. 

Sudden  they  brought  thee,  but  thou,  0  Divinest, 

Smiling,  with  countenance  lovely  for  aye, 
Spak'st  to  me,  saidst  to  me:  " Daughter,  why  pinest  ? 
What  dost  thou  pray? 

"  Tell  me  thy  frenzied  heart's  fieriest  longing. 

Yearnest  some  love-luring  charm  to  possess  ? 
Who  hath  neglected  thee,  who  hath  been  wronging  ? 
Sappho,  confess. 

"  For  if  he  fly,  he  shall  seek  thee  in  anguish. 

Scorns  he  thy  gifts  ?     He  shall  offer  his  own. 
Scorns  he  thy  love  ?    He  shall  soon  for  it  languish, 
Though  it  be  flown." 

Speed  to  me  now,  goddess,  loose  me  from  sorrow  ; 

Grant  my  fierce  yearnings  fruition  and  end. 
Thou  art  all  potent ;  thy  strength  would  I  borrow. 
Oh  !  be  my  friend. 


Translations.  231 


Resignation. 

[From  the  Swedish  of  Yitalis.] 

WHY  should  I  not  meet  Grief  in  joyous  fashion  ? 
It  is  God's  angel  and  should  welcome  be. 
Why  should  I  doubt  my  Father's  kind  compassion 
Because  he  sends  stern  messengers  to  me  ? 

Like  timid  bird  beneath  its  mother's  pinions, 
Close  to  his  breast  I  creep  in  hiding  sweet, 

And  though  Death  seek  me  with  a  thousand  minions, 
My  faith  itself  is  victory  complete. 

Like  some  mild  pigeon  winging  from  its  sender, 
My  prayer  has  pierced  the  starry  realms  above, 

And,  flitting  whitely  through  his  perfect  splendor, 
It  takes  this  message  to  his  heart  of  love  : 

1  yield  my  will  to  Thee.     Do  not  disdain  it, 
0  Thou  whose  eyes  into  my  heart  can  see. 

Lo  !  lovingly  I  seize  Thy  cup  and  drain  it, 
Just  as  in  love  Thou  reachest  it  to  me  !. 


Sir  Butterfly  0 

> 

[From  the  French.] 

A  ROUND  the  Parson's  gate 
-LA-    A  merry  throng  await 
Sir  Butterfly,  the  popular  and  gay. 
"  Marry  !  "  they  shout  together, 
"  For  you  in  pleasant  weather 
Have  courted  every  pretty  flower  of  May. 


232  Translations. 


The  spruce  young  celibate 
Replied  :  "  How  can  I  mate  ?  » 

I  have  no  house  where  wife  and  I  could  live." 
"  My  son,  that  doesn't  matter," 
Cries  Snail  above  the  clatter, 
"  For  I  have  one  that  I  will  freely  give." 

The  roguish  celibate 

Still  asks  :  "  How  can  I  mate  ? 
My  bed  without  a  single  sheet  would  be." 

But  Spider,  sitting  in 

His  star,  replied,  "  I'll  spin, 
And  you  shall  have  a  plenty,  you  will  see." 

The  roguish  celibate 

Still  asks  :  * '  How  can  I  mate  ? 
There'd  be  no  bread  for  wife  and  me  to  eat." 

Now,  Ant  enjoys  a  joke, 

And  laughingly  he  spoke  : 
"  If  bread  is  what  you  lack,"  said  he,  "  I'll  treat." 

Again  the  celibate 
Replies  :  ' '  How  can  I  mate  ? 
Dry  bread  is  rather  unattractive  fare." 
"  For  wine,  rely  on  me, 

For  Fve  a  pantry  key," 
Says  Mr.  Rat,  "and  rummage  everywhere." 

The  roguish  celibate 
Yet  asks  :  "  How  can  I  mate  ? 
I  think  we'd  need  a  little  sugar,  too." 
"  Do  what  your  friends  advise," 

'Tis  Honey  Bee  replies, 
"  You're  welcome  to  my  honey,  and  'twill  do." 


Translations.  233 


The  roguish  celibate 

Still  says  :  "  How  can  I  mate  ? 
I  haven't  e'en  a  cent  to  buy  a  light ! " 

But  Glow-worm  cries  :  ' '  Oho  ! 

My  friend,  I'd  have  you  know 
That  with  my  lantern  you'll  not  think  it's  night. " 

"  Oh,  yes/'  the  victim  whined, 

"  Let's  give,  since  you're  inclined, 
A  wedding  without  music,  by  all  means." 

"  Aha  ! "  exclaim  the  Crickets, 

"  There'll  be  a  rush  for  tickets 
To  hear  our  cymbals  and  our  tamborines." 

The  poor  old  celibate 
Entered  the  Parson's  gate, 
And  made  the  due  arrangements  like  a  child. 
His  friends  all  kept  their  word, 
But  after  mass  was  heard 
They  plagued  him  till  they  nearly  drove  him  wild. 

jjonolttltt. 

[From  Sarah  Bernhardt's  French.] 

HONOLULU'S  the  gem  of  the  ocean  ; 
Mid  the%  tear- jeweled  billows  she  lies, 
And  aye  on  their  languorous  motion 
She  dreams  with  her  beautiful  eyes. 

Her  bed  is  of  seaweed ;  red  roses 

The  walls  of  her  sky  overcreep  ; 
And  there  in  the  mist  she  reposes, 

Lulled  to  rest  by  the  waves  of  the  deep. 


234  Translations. 


Rocked  to  rest  by  the  waves  that  are  dying, 

Soothed  asleep  by  the  low  lullaby 
Of  palm  and  of  cocoa  trees  sighing 

To  the  winds  from  the  sea  and  the  sky. 

Her  odorous  winds  are  a-shiver 
With  the  wings  of  a  musical  throng, 

And  the  reeds  by  the  sea-reaches  quiver, 
And  are  loud  with  the  voices  of  song  ! 

There  is  passion,  and  daring,  and  lightness 
In  the  heart  of  this  queen  of  the  West, 

And  she  smiles  on  the  waves  with  the  brightness 
Of  a  siren  when  charming  her  best. 

And  the  hoary  old  sea-cliff,  whose  duty 
Is  to  watch  o'er  the  bride  of  his  vows, 

Gazes  jealously  e'er  on  the  beauty 
And  the  light-hearted  joy  of  his  spouse. 

Honolulu's  a  pearl,  and  they  found  her 
In  the  azure-hued  brine,  where  she  lies 

With  the  winds  and  the  waves  gathered  round  her, 
And  above  her  the  innocent  skies. 

But  see  !     O'er  the  shimmering  water 
Comes  the  satin-robed  dawn  in  her  shell ; 

I  am  oil  on  the  billows  that  brought  her — 
Honolulu,  farewell,  oh,  farewell ! 


Translations.  235 


0  Song. 

[From  the  Swedish  of  Franzen.] 

LEAP,  my  swift  reindeer, 
Over  plain  and  hill ! 
Thou  shalt  browse  thy  fill 
My  love's  hut  a -near. 
Softest  mosses  grow 
There  beneath  the  snow. 

Ah,  how  brief  the  day, 
And  the  road  how  long ! 
Leap  thou  with  my  song  ; 
Let  us  haste  away. 
Here  can  be  no  rest ; 
Wolves  this  place  infest. 

See  yon  eagle  rise  — 
Ah,  that  I  could  fly  ! 
See  yon  cloud  scud  by — 
Would  I  sailed  the  skies, 
So  I  from  above 
Might  behold  thee,  Love  ! 

^ 

You  so  quickly  yet 
Firmly  trapped  me,  Sweet ! 
So  the  wild  deer's  feet 
Find  the  snare  that's  set. 
Oh,  my  life  seeks  thine 
Like  yon  stream  the  brine  ! 


236  Translations. 


Each  succeeding  sun, 
Each  slow  night  that  wears, 
Brings  its  thousand  prayers  — 
Thousands,  yet  but  one  — 
Just  this  prayer  alone, 
That  thou  be  mine  own. 

Under  bowlders  steep 
Thou  ma}Tst  hide  in  fear, 
Or  with  fleet  reindeer 
Flee  to  forests  deep  : 
Rock  and  stately  pine 
Stay  not  love  like  mine  ! 

Leap,  my  swift  reindeer, 
Over  plain  and  hill ! 
Thou  shalt  graze  thy  fill 
My  love's  hut  a-near. 
Sweetest  mosses  grow 
There  beneath  the  snow. 

Stye  Stinger  Sttmg. 

[From  the  Greek  of  Theocritus.] 

LOVE,  the  thief,  chanced  on  a  day 
Near  the  bees  to  linger, 
When  a  naughty  one,  they  say, 
Stung  him  on  the  finger. 

Oh,  the  wound,  it  hurt  him  so  ! 

How  he  blew  and  shook  it ! 
How  he  stamped  and  danced  with  woe, 

Then  to  mother  took  it. 


Translations.  237 


Spreading  all  his  fingers,  he 

Sobbed  to  Aphrodite  : 
"Mother,  little  is  the  bee, 
But  its  sting  is  mighty  !  " 

Then  the  Queen  of  Passion  smiled, 

And  she  answered  merely  : 
"  You  are  small  yourself,  my  child, 
But  you  wound  severely." 


lUaj. 

[From  the  French  of  Sully  Prudhomme.] 

UNTO  the  stars  I  said  one  night  : 
f  '  Ye  are  unhappy,  as  I  deem. 
Your  rays,  so  softly,  meekly  bright, 
Through  boundless  spaces  sadly  stream. 

"And  oft  I  fancy  that  ye  go 

Like  white-clad  mourners  through  the  sky, 
With  myriad  virgins  holding  high 
Their  torches  in  procession  slow. 

"Live  ye  one  ceaseless  life  of  prayer  ? 
Is  grief  >with  your  existence  wed  ? 
For  these  are  tears  of  light  most  fair, 
Not  rays  of  glory,  that  ye  shed. 

"  0  ancient  stars,  that  lived  and  shone 

Ere  gods  or  creatures  filled  the  years, 
Within  your  eyes  are  bitter  tears." 
They  answered  me  :  "We  are  alone  ! 


238  Translations. 


"Each  one  of  us  is  very  far 

From  all  her  sisters  seen  by  thee  ; 
Our  beams  no  messengers  can  be 
Of  what  we  feel  or  what  we  are. 

"And  cold,  unfeeling  space  devours 
The  final  warmth  of  every  ray." 
I  said  :  "  I  know  what  ye  would  say, 
For  ye  are  like  these  souls  of  ours. 

"For  they,  like  you,  with  friendly  light 

Their  sisters  seem  to  warm  and  bless, 
Yet  in  eternal  loneliness 
They  burn  in  silence  and  in  night. " 


3(  Animals  Coulb  Spmk. 

[From  the  French.] 

I   WOULD  not  wrong  the  human  kind, 
Though  I've  but  scanty  faith  in  it ; 
Yet  in  my  La  Fontaine  I  find 

That  brutes  have  often  shrewdest  wit. 
We  all  love  sayings  bright  and  new, 

And  (not  my  fellow-man  to  pique) 
Perhaps  they  wouldn't  be  so  few 
If  animals  could  only  speak. 

For  instance,  take  the  sorry  hacks 
That  pull  a  street-car  o'er  the  stones ; 

All  day  the  driver  swears,  and  cracks 
His  lash  about  their  smarting  bones. 


Translations.  239 


In  hot  and  cold,  in  wet  and  snow, 
They  toil  and  suffer,  patient,  meek  ; 

Some  new  profanity  we'd  know 
If  animals  could  only  speak  ! 

Whenever  through  the  streets  you  see 

His  course  some  hapless  blind  man  feel, 
His  little  dog  is  sure  to  be 

Somewhere  anear  him,  watchful,  leal. 
In  every  eye  for  pity's  tear, 

The  brute's  eyes,  longing,  seem  to  seek  ; 
True  eloquence  we  oft  might  hear 

If  animals  could  only  speak  ! 

In  summer  nights  the  kind  moon  shines 

On  many  a  lonely  country  road, 
The  lover  then  throws  down  the  lines 

And  tightly  holds  his  buxom  load. 
The  horse  looks  back  and  sees  —  ah,  well ! 

It  brings  the  blushes  to  my  cheek 
To  think  what  stories  he  could  tell 

If  animals  could  only  speak. 

The  cook  below  delights  to  flirt 

With  her  policeman  by  the  hour ; 
That's  why  she  ruins  the  dessert, 

And  why  the  bread  is  always  sour. 
Beneath  the  stove  the  tabby  sleeps 

With  one  eye  open,  fat  and  sleek ; 
He'd  show  how  faithful  tab  he  keeps 

If  animals  could  only  speak  ! 


240  Translations. 


I  think  it's  time  that  I  were  done ; 

My  muse  grows  clumsy  in  its  feet . 
(For  diagram  that  goes  with  pun,  . 

Address  620  Bogus  Street.) 
I  greatly  fear  my  friends  will  say  : 
That  poet's  brain  is  waxing  weak  — 
The  ass  would  rhyme  in  just  that  way 

If  animals  could  only  speak  ! " 


21  Ntgljt  in  £e0bo0. 

Ae8vH£  HEY  a 


,  jj.£(5ai  ds 
itdptc  <5'  £/>££r' 
eyco  <5e  juora  xarevdoa. 

—  Sappho,  52d  Fragment. 

THE  moon  has  left  the  sky, 
The  Pleiades  are  flown, 
Midnight  is  creeping  nigh, 
And  I  am  still  alone. 

Ah  me,  how  long,  how  long 

Are  all  these  weary  hours  ! 
I  hate  the  night-birds'  song 

Among  the  Lesbian  flowers. 

I  hate  the  soft,  sweet  breeze, 
That  comes  to  kiss  my  hair 

From  oleander  trees 

And  waters  cool  and  fair. 

My  heart  is  fierce  and  wild  ; 
The  winds  should  rave  and  moan  ; 


Translations.  241 


Ah,  why  is  nature  mild 
When  I  am  here  alone  ? 

While  yet  the  silver  moon 
Rode  o'er  the  laughing  sea, 

My  heart  was  glad,  for,  <(  Soon," 
I  said,  "  he  comes  to  me." 

But  when  its  placid  sphere 
Slid  swiftly  'neath  the  wave, 

I  sighed  :  "  He  is  not  here  ; 
Be  brave,  my  heart,  be  brave." 

Then  for  an  age  of  woe, 

Of  doubts  and  hopings  vain, 

I  watched  the  white  stars  snow 
On  yon  ^Egean  plain. 

I  named  them  by  their  names, 

Alcyone  and  all, 
Those  far  and  happy  flames, 

On  which  we  mortals  call. 

"  Ere  that  one  sets,"  I  said, 

"  My  soul  shall  swim  in  bliss  ; " 
And  then,  "  Ere  that  is  fled 
My  lips  shall  feel  his  kiss. " 

The  moon  has  left  the  pole, 
The  Pleiades  are  flown, 

'Tis  midnight  in  my  soul, 
And  I  am  here  alone  ! 


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